Odyssey of Souls
by DarkFacade-88
Summary: NEW CHAPTER (16) UP! Part I: The warriors who hunt the legendary blade walk the globe, crossing paths, but one is about to awaken a new evil that will change them all forever. Read & Review
1. Gone, But Not Forgotten

Author's Note: Hello again, all ye. I have, unofficially, hit some major plot holes with other fanfics, as well as losing some entirely and having to re-write. Luckily for those who care, I got semi-inspired and am going off with this new 'masterpiece' fanfic. I took a few liberties, but it's still SC2 canon. There will be some OC's later on, but they are only for story driving purposes, not Mary and/or Marty Stus. This one's gonna be long, and I think it's gonna be good, if you want to read on. This is my take on SC2 and beyond, with major twists, turns, life and death, war and peace, the works. Another warning, there will be character death later on (not tellin' who, of course), but it is only because this is authoritative, not just a little story. Its plan, in my mind, is very grand. So sit back, get a nice cigar if you smoke (don't smoke!) and enjoy the tale of the Odyssey of Souls…

**Prologue – Gone, But Not Forgotten**

Old eyes, aged and half-closed in wisdom's ancient prime, fell coldly upon the equally withered parchment before them. Their focused pupils locked upon those pages, just beneath the craned nose of the gazer, and the whole head that bore those eyes turned down and sagged into its holding neck, looking with a fixed stare at the heavily inked words and intensely designed gallery of pictures that lurked on each thick slab of papyrus strung together to form the volume. 

"It is that time...A time I hoped would never come, my friends...The time when shadow's leeching wave must come again, like the tide, slow in the coming but tight in the drawing and wrenching like the noose which time has become, closing by the second and making this harder for us all...The shadow is coming back, for man has made too much of Earth to leave even a cranny unturned and since we could not eliminate the darkness, it will be found...History will repeat, but for the worse, I fear..." The ancient elder, his eyes nestled between wrinkled bags and grayed strands of snow-white hair dangling over his face, leaned down and put his scraggly index finger to the paper, tracing the intricate and miniscule text keenly. He laid that finger like a bird upon one large picture which filled the span of two whole pages, luminous despite loss of color, pallor, and most of its focus and texture. Slowly, at least in the mind of the looker, the picture began to resonate with a strange, visible life as the image fluctuated.  
"If you do not know the tale...I know it all too well."  
  
_There was a clash and a thunderous clap and another clash, a surge of flame, black like night, and a surge of light as golden as the sun which barely cut that glistening cape of jet. The single piercing ray, poking through a cloud of blackness foul, seemed to barely form a lighted sliver in the endless night which had overtaken all. The sky was black and red in turn, a dark crimson blotched with colorless masses of billowing cloud. Blood-red marked the rim of the horizon and blasting lances of sickly orange in electric waves overflowed through the atmosphere, only serving to augment the hellish conditions. But, far below, the single orb of golden energy pulsed onward with its rays projected out and beating at the dark._  
  
"Two fought there, though many were fighting in all other places on the globe; the shadow and the light in battle. The one of power, as you know, friends, was the darkness himself, the shadow. He had not yet achieved the ultimate level to prevail, but had been so close. The sight of him still chills me to the bone, though it might not do the same for you." The elder pulled his finger along the picture, flicking crumbs of clinging dust from the tapestry-reminiscent picture. He caressed the crinkled paper of the pages and the crease between them, setting his finger again upon an illustrious figure, glowing with a monstrous but regal majesty, in the right corner. He tapped his finger against the section, which two began to swell and breathe with life, and shook his head in a melancholy fashion as the view flared up before him.   
"And so it was, as I remember. The darkness, in his glory had brought darkness to the world over the course of a great and terrible war. Now it was he who held the power, but light would not flinch from battling him, by the grace of the gods at least. The armies of earth fought him eternally, or so it seemed; armies of the mortal and immortal, the real and fantastic united to destroy the evil's forces. All over the planet upon which I stand he sent his dark handed shadow, but he was fought at every turn, halted at every bridge, until he had finally been boxed into the world's corner, his lieutenants all banished into the farther reaches of the cosmos and only he remaining. There, he unleashed his final onslaught upon the forces of light with merciless resolve, employing all his power."  
  
_The red sky already ablaze, a terrible sort of moving blackness surged over it. A mass of wing and scale that cloaked the heavens in terrible array, countless rhythmically beating wings in their gargantuan spans as a ravenous, endless claw made of the separate beasts plowed down, striking the ground and splitting into the massive silhouettes of monsters that headed this way and that, their murderous shrieks and cacophonous roars rending any notion of silence that the world possessed. Things crawled up from the searing lace of cracks in the earth, tendrils of deep and mutilated hue shot up, tentacle and claw, sinuous arm and jagged talon, toothy snout and flaring nostril, all pouring out of the earth and up into the air before alighting in bird-like fashion upon the splintered worldly crust and rushing off to do dark biddings for their equally dark master._  


"But there were those who stood for the longest time. The other righteous warriors were driven back, but they remained standing throughout it all and battled him, Nightmare, the first Nightmare, the darkness, for a good many days until it was thought that their battle would split the very world with its tremendous force. At long last, after the cataclysmic fight had ripped the earth asunder time and time again."  
  
_There was light and then there was darkness, there was a flash and a shadow, both as fleeting as ever before. The light and the darkness fought back and forth, their whole countenance raging back and forth across the sky. Below, it was impossible for the skies to see what occurred as sounds so great the universe had never heard them before and could barely stand them boomed like cosmic thunder which shattered the very continuum of sound that rippled like a wave from the hovering sphere of a planet as it's course through the murky span of space slowed. Finally, a blinding and dazzling array of sparkling beams began to shine through the slits in the darkness, tainting its blackness with unbridled white and sunny gold that overcame the shadow in the atmosphere and peeled over it as a cape or veil would. The loudest sound of all, a shrieking bellowing clap of galactic thunder, could be heard as the world was engulfed in light._  
  
"And there he was left. The rest were banished from our time, from our very world for what we thought to be eternity. Nightmare, though, remained upon the battlefield, beneath the ruins of his empire, never again to be found and never again to bring that terrible darkness to this world…until today." The elder gave a long and winding sigh as he wrapped his withered digits around the books side and pulled it closed, watching a second spray of dust push up from the table he leaned against, hunched over and peering at the rust-colored gilds of the antiquated volume. His eyes, cold and hard again, turned up to the dim light.  
"I am a learned man, my friends, and read as I can. Today, the people of this planet still know of those creatures summoned by that Nightmare so many centuries ago. No one has guessed that they were once here, upon this planet….and, soon enough, will be again." The elder slowly drew his hand across the plaque upon the book's cover, tracing over the etched, three-dimensional lettering embossed on it in dull gold. Slowly, he eyed the many words written so carefully and forebodingly into the archival jacket of that lore. "Those years ago, that Nightmare died, but a new one has risen. But, he is weak of mind and of body. The old ones will be summoned to do this job, the ancient deities, the real darkness….soon."


	2. Innocent Nightmare

Author's Note: Apparently, I forgot the disclaimer in the first chapter (damn). Well, here it is. I do not own SC2, or any of its characters, etc. There, happy now? nervous laughter followed by choking

**Chapter I – Innocent Nightmare**

A cacophonous boom rumbled the peak as a bolt of lightning struck nearby. The storm was tremendous, almost supernatural; as if it was being influenced by something other than nature...

            It was cold; a caustic, stinging, biting kind of cold that was rarely present in many places. The harsh winters, stabbing like icy lances, were barely comparable. The sun had long given up and trying to shine through the sleet rain as a mass of hurricane grey and murky white shot down as volleys of gunfire, breaking both ground and record with their unwavering force. It was quite a storm, not as great or memorable for this polar region, though, for all Oblivion knew, it was not polar. Snow poured down like a wavy sheet, rippling and cracking Oblivion's line of vision. His glowing red eyes, dotted with yellow twinges that buzzed radiantly back and forth on the plate of his helmeted face, concealed behind a shrouding visor sat the slits that were his eyes, glaring out with ruthless intent at the horizon. The sky was blindingly blue, though the snow-white seemed to overflow onto it like a wistful cape which wrapped around the sky, holding the thin layer of blue in the sky by a thread while the daggers of snow, ice, hail, and sleet berated it with merciless resolve.  
            Despite the storm, which would've continued at any time, it was otherwise a calm, if not arctic day. The wind was harsh and unsteady as it blasted a smoggy maelstrom of ice particles, consumed by the zephyr gusts. The only light, other than the searing icy hue of the watery clouds and pouring wintry mix of debris came from the blood-red hue of an aura that seethed about Nightmare, flowing through the cracked slits at his armored joints.  
There, Nightmare stood; "Nightmare," the arbitrary label given to this, puppet, the demonic soul which controlled the man formerly known as Siegfried found this notion...humorous. For Nightmare was the being people feared, when the demonic blade, Soul Edge, was the one actually in control. It was controlling him now. Siegfried had managed to travel to the peak of this mountain, far away from human population, but this was merely a small inconvenience for the blade. Soul Edge forced Nightmare to hold up a shard if itself which they had come across during their journeys together. This shard was a piece of itself which it had lost during a battle with two humans whom wielded two very powerful weapons. Nightmare raised his arm so that the sword may have a better view of the shard with its enormous eye. More of these shards existed. And these were a part of Soul Edge. Until they were all together once again and joined to their source, Soul Edge's power was incomplete. Simple tasks such as manipulating the actions of its pawn were now somewhat challenging. That is why, during the hours when Siegfried was completely under the control of Soul Edge, Nightmare would search the world for the remainder of the sword's being.

            _'Shards, shards everywhere.__ So many to find, so many lost, so many waiting.'_  
Although the shards existed in multiple locations, they were still a part of Soul Edge. They still had the same power to manipulate souls. However, since they were fragmented, each shard possessed a mere fraction of Soul Edge's true power. Each shard used what power it did have to persuade people from around the world to gather them. The easiest people for the shards to manipulate were those who had devoted their lives to some craft or activity. Strong fighters in particular were susceptible to the calling of the shards. Fighters who possessed a strong passion to learning the intricacies of their art had conditioned their souls to pick up on and synchronize with the ebb and flow of spiritual energies which existed in the world. Soul Edge's energy was the same as these, and therefore lent itself to be harnessed by such people. How convenient that the strongest fighters in the world were the ones gathering the shards. In order to attain power and longevity, Soul Edge feasted on souls. The stronger the soul, the more benefit the sword would reap. Taking the souls of the world's strongest fighters would significantly boost Soul Edge's already tremendous power. The formula was all too perfect. Soul Edge needed only to direct its puppet to human populous, and its fragments would return with little to no effort. Nightmare began his descent to the base of the mountain, from which he'd make his way toward human civilization. He was currently in Nepal, descending the world's tallest peak. Soul Edge could sense the signature of its fragments from all around the world. The quest had begun.

The young man suddenly "awoke". He regained consciousness, but not from sleep. He was once again in control of his body, which was being used and manipulated by that...sword. The sword he was drawn to; the one that compelled his very soul to retrieve it, the sword that he now held with his horribly twisted and deformed right arm...  
Soul Edge. It all but completely controlled him. Ever since the blade was partially damaged, Seigfried sometimes gained these brief spans of voluntary control. Whenever such an opportunity would arise, he would voyage as far away from cities and towns as possible; for he knew what the sword did when it took control. It used his body as its servant, as its puppet. When the sword was in control, the being "Nightmare" came into existence. Nightmare, the monster who's insatiable lust for murder was feared the world over. The thousands of people who had been slain by the hands of Nightmare had no idea that their lives were taken to give the blade vitality. Their souls were the sword's food; they were what was keeping it alive.  
Seigfried, now awake, recalled his dilemma. He needed to start his journey away from people as soon as he could, for he had no idea how much time he had before Nightmare would emerge once more. Siegfried was exhausted. Although he had just awakened, he was never actually asleep. No matter. He needed to move.  
He stood up, shakily. His muscles ached. His head pulsed with pain. No matter. Seigfried used all of his effort to walk, toting the heavy blade. He looked down at it, noticing that its enormous eye was shut. Before it was shattered, he thought, it never needed to sleep. Siegfried wished that he could find those two people who caused that damage to the sword. If only he could find them, perhaps they could make the blade sleep forever...  
He continued onward, quickening his step. Just then, he noticed the smell in the air. _'...Oh God.'_ His human voice uttered softly, choking back the words. He knew this smell. He knew it all too well. It was the sickening, putrid odor of charred, dead flesh. That is when he looked down and noticed the enormous amount of blood and small fragments of bone and innards littered all around his body. The blood was still warm. Seigfried's heart sank, and he became light headed. Woozy, he lost his balance and fell to his knees. He began to vomit violently. Coughing and spitting, Seigfried's chest and throat ached from his wild heaving. He finally opened his tear-flooded eyes to gaze upon a disturbing sight. He had vomited up profuse amounts of blood. But wait... this blood...wasn't his. It was speckled with chunks of flesh…Suddenly, an unstoppable rush of memory flooded into him as his eyes began to water.

_            His hand, enveloped in a firm gauntlet, was curled and clenched about the cold steel of his zweihander blade. A rush of adrenaline, a terrible bloodlust fueled him and gave him maddening resolve as combat began, swirling as a typhoon would around him. He yanked the blade left and right, hacking at almost unseen foes. All he knew of these men who fell like wheat before him where that they had fled the wars in the southeast and would be his prey, the prey of the wind he rode upon, the Black Wind, a powerful nimbus that would bear him up to the clouds as he wished it._

_            He plunged deeper into the shadowed fray, grinning a flawless grin as he heard the gnashing of flesh and the crunching of bone in his great sword's wake. To and fro he hacked, feeling the searing warmth of blood spray over his dented armor and into the metal rivets of his chain mail coat beneath. He panted excitedly, his breath ragged and smoky before him in the cold air as he listened, an odd tranquility descending on him, to the whistle of that blade and the shrieks of wailing agony that were uttered so horribly from the receiving end. He laughed, a cold and heartless laugh that he had never before heard in him…he liked it._

_            At long last, he found the sound he searched for. A clean sweep, a gnashing slice, and a sickening little pop as the body in front of him clattered unceremoniously to the ground in a limp heap. He stepped, ambling calmly, over the beheaded body. He knew this corpse belonged to the leader of the brigade his knights had overrun. Now, the sounds of battle were echoes as the clock of the world slowed around him. The fight was won, and the severed cranium of the loser was his to claim. Laughing fully and proudly, Seigfried Schtauffen lay down his hand on the sweaty hair of that head and yanked it up, swiveling, and producing the head to see for all his cheering mercenaries around, celebrating their victory._

_            Suddenly, the creeping moonlight, pale like a lamp and shining down only in a number of slender beams, hit the knight full in the face and swiveled up until the ray bathed his arm and the head he held in a ghostly light that augmented the dead man's colorless pallor. As Seigfried's eyes flitted slowly to the face, the horrible look plated on that face, his face slated and went livid, the color draining from it as well as he recognized the flowing hair, the elegant moustache, the kind demeanor, and the calm look of a warrior that had curled over dead lips…the lips of his father, Frederick Schtauffen…_

_            His eyes bulged open, staring with a fixed and almost awestruck gaze at the visage of his own parent's decapitated head. His grip sagged and his fingers scurried apart, letting the head plummet and bounce a single time on the ground. He looked down at it a moment longer, staring, as he began to back up. His men, the men of the Black Wind, were completely oblivious to his plight, still cheering and hollering like maddened wolves at the cold moon above. They barely even noticed as their leader, eyes wet and red, turned, roaring in anguish at the clouds, and took off into the forest behind, holding his head in agonized hands as he sprinted deeper into the waiting darkness._

  
  
With his now hysterical tears; Seigfried now forced himself to vomit even more. He just realized what had transpired. That hideous monster, Nightmare, had feasted upon the flesh of his most recent human victims. That accursed blade had turned the youth into a cannibalistic murderer. Seigfried cupped his hands around his face, horribly uncomfortable, and still weeping. _'What a monster...'_ he uttered to himself weakly, talking so not even the clouds could hear. Doing his best to pull himself together after the jolting revelation, Siegfried forced himself to stand. He needed to find a way to keep this from ever happening again. Until he could figure out a strategy, however, he had to remove himself from his current close proximity to humans. He tried his best to jog, and made his way into a down through the mountainous crags. Siegfried was in bad shape, and he knew it. He was completely exhausted, having not slept for probably days, and he had no sustenance within his system. Still, he did his best to move. Amongst the jutting outcroppings of rock, he came across a small stream running with crystal clear water near the grand geographic structures base. He stopped here, intending to take a drink. Before he could even lower himself to his knees, Siegfried collapsed unconscious. 

            He was up again in an instant, his eyes glowing again with a more fervent pulsation then before. Coolly, he flexed an armored muscle and pulled the hulking zweihander upward to his face. He eyed the deformed, crackling metal before him and hefted it expertly onto his shoulder, a thunderous chuckle emitting gutturally from him as he marched on, right through the clear water, watching a sickly black spread though its icy depths and taint it with putrid sable that seeped up and down its length. The snow still poured in surplus sheets down upon him as he donned his helm anew, sifting it calmly onto his head as his laugh grew, swelling as the wind's shrieking increased by a hundred fold, lashing out with furious resolve.

            _'No more of Siegfried, Nightmare, expel and forget. Go on, take the power around you.'___

Time to make Soul Edge complete…

            There was a town not far off, more of a village, utterly shrouded from view by the snowy rain. Thatched roofs, rent haplessly apart by the gusts, stood in the distance, nestled cozily into the snowy depths, surrounded on all sides by mountainous, ice-capped ridges that met the mortar walls of the buildings around and slid gently against them as the hail berated their sides intensely. The dark knight headed towards it, dragging Soul Edge in tow.

            _'Souls.__ More souls, Nightmare, so many for the taking, go NOW!'_

He headed onward, dragging himself restlessly through the crunching snow.

            _'I am Nightmare!' _he thought, _'I am the one, the only, the destroyer…and my time has come to take what is mine!'_

He had not even considered that he was not the one, the only…but his time had come all the same.


	3. Training the Flame

Author's Note: Ok, here's Chapter II. Two things, first; One: This chapter does take one or two liberties. I know that it was Seung Mina who gave Yunsung White Storm, but this isn't a major story alteration, just a minor one for the sake of my plot. Second: I already have the first six chapters (not counting prologue) written up in completion and three others are more than half done. Based on the reviews or encouragement to update, I will. Even though I like this fic I'm working with, I might not continue past Chapter 9 if nobody reads it except for one or two (who I know will read it). Considering dropping the rating to PG-13, despite the vomiting, violence, and trauma. There might be nudity, but nothing really worthy of an R rating.

Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine at all. Don't own SC2

****

**Chapter II – Training the Flame**

A white sakura petal drifted onto the red hair of Yunsung, clinging to a few stands of hair folding over his forehead. He cupped his lips and blew a heavy blast of air upward, sending the delicate blossom on a new course. He gazed upon the petal as it slowly flew away, until his vision focused onto that of the huge crowd gathered in the courtyard, surrounding the entrance to the dojo temple. Despite the beautiful day, the youth felt miserable. Yunsung leaned against the entrance to the dojo itself with his arms crossed in front of him. He didn't feel like standing with the rest of his comrades, it would only make him feel worse. "I can't believe I'm sitting through with this," he mumbled underneath his breath, looking about and grumbling silently to himself, scratching his hand nonchalantly. "I heard that," a girl's voice rung out. Yunsung shifted his eyes to the young girl walking toward him. He remained in the same position, although he put an exaggerated look of placid carelessness on his face.  
"What's it to you?" he told the master's daughter. Her green silk dress complimented that of the orange and white uniform Yunsung wore.   
"Come on, you're childhood hero is about to become the new master of the dojo," Seung Mina chuckled. Yunsung rolled his eyes as she turned to peer off into the crowd that was bustling and swelling not far off. He certainly didn't need to hear _that_ from her. "Some friend you are. Just leave me alone." He began walking away, but Seung Mina grabbed his wrist. The red-head quickly cocked his head toward the master's daughter. His eyes were that of any angst-ridden child. "When are you going to grow up? You used to go up to Hwang as a kid and ask if he could teach you something new - and he would every single time. The least you could do is acknowledge him in _his_ ceremony." As soon as Yunsung open his mouth to retaliate, a large gong resounded throughout the courtyard. "It's starting, come on, I saved two spots up front for us." Still gripping Yunsung's wrist, she pulled him down the center aisle to the front of the temple. "What!?" The young swordsman tried retaliating, but he didn't want to cause a disruption. He forced a smile on his face, as all his fellow students saw him being dragged by Seung Mina to the front. They stood in front of the crowd, respectfully standing and facing the entrance to the temple.  
"I can't believe you're putting me through this," he chanted with clenched teeth over to the young girl, keeping his head straight to the temple.   
"Just shut up and grow up for once," she replied in the same manner back to him. They both turned their attention to Master Seung as he stepped up to the front and began speaking.

  
  
Hong made sure to leave right after the ceremony. He went straight to his room and shut the door. He didn't want anybody to bother him. Lying in his bed, he gazed out toward the crystal blue sky. It would be the last time he'd be able to do so for a few years. His room looked neat and tidy. Most of his belongings were stored away and the few that he decided to take with him were already packed in his burlap sack.   
No one knew of his plans, but he was determined to show everyone what he's capable of. His plan was to sneak out in the cover of darkness, only to leave a note on his bed about his whereabouts so that no one would worry.   
Staring at the fluffy cotton balls in the sky finally calmed Yunsung down. He was feeling a lot better, although that fight against the ninja from last night still lingered in the back of his mind.   
_"Who am I?"_ he thought. "_Why am I here in the first place?"_ His mind drifted to his future journey. He pondered about all the great challenges ahead…and how he would triumph over all of them. "I'll bring back the Sword of Salvation," he whispered under his breath. _"I'll save __Korea__. Mark my words." _A knock suddenly echoed from this door. The red-headed youth let out an annoyed breath as he spoke softly, an irked tone apparent in his voice, "Come in," Yunsung replied in a disenchanted manner. He remained lying down with his hands behind his head as the wooden door slowly crept open. The red-head casually glanced over to his door to see who disturbed him. His brown eyes widened with surprise as he immediately jumped off his bed. He stood up straight, looking dead on to his visitor. "Master Seung," Yunsung acknowledged. He bowed respectfully, with his left hand cupping over his right first in front of him. Master Seung Han Myong simply bowed and began to speak.  
"I have heard that you are going on a journey," the master started. Yunsung's eyes widened once again. He looked toward the floor, wondering how to respond. He knew he was caught; someone had snitched on him, but who? No one knew of his plans. "May I ask who spoke of me," he said in a quiet tone. His right hand trembled a bit as he continued to maintain eye focus on his master.  
"I have my sources" grinned the wizened face coolly, "...not to mention your room being so clean and that bag of belongings next to you." Yunsung gave a face of disappointment as he looked away from Master Seung. A slight grin appeared on the old man's face as he turned around.   
"Follow me," he replied, walking out of his room. Surprised, Hong followed his master to an unknown destination.   
_'Where is he taking me now?'_ he thought to himself. _'I bet he's going to make me heave that huge boulder up the hill again.'_ The youth cringed at the thought of it. But when the master turned at a different corridor, Yunsung knew he wasn't being taken there. Master Seung pushed a set of double doors open, stepping into his private sparing room where he gave private instructions to his students. The master walked out to the middle of the tatami mat, stopped and turned around. He looked directly into Hong's eyes. The master brought out an open palm; slowly swing it once from left to right. Yunsung hesitantly turned around. On either side of the double doors stood a wall of various weapons private weapons that belong to Master Seung, carved and gilded with shimmering materials which reflected that calm and dimly tranquil light seeping down from above.  
"Choose," he heard his master say from behind. Although he was curious as to why, he dare not ask. He walked up to the weapons display, looking at them as a child would look at a bunch of toys. He searched for a bladed weapon, as swords were his specialty. His eyes caught to a pair of butterfly swords. The handles were exquisitely handcrafted out of aged silver. A phoenix was carved into each hand with a red, silk tassel hanging from the butt end. The blade itself looked to be about two and a half feet long and flared out toward the tip. Yunsung didn't recognize the metal. It had a strange, rosy appearance with a carved dragon on each sword near the handle. He lifted the two swords from it carrying hooks. They had excellent weight and balance. _'These are incredible,'_ he stated to himself, inspecting the weapons in gleeful awe. He returned to the mat with the two swords. Master Seung was still waiting at the same spot. "Very interesting," he murmured, still with an unperturbed and undisturbed look plastered on his aging features. "Not many are attracted to the Swords of Jung-Ku." Upon finishing his sentence, he brought out a large machete from behind his back. Yunsung held in a quick breath, wondering where he got the machete from. Master Seung went into a rigid but flexible stance, murmuring, "Attack."  
Hong stood his ground, confused. "Attack now!" Seung's voice swelled as a new air began to fill him. Yunsung assumed his own fighting stance. All remained motionless as Yunsung studied his master's stance. 'The machete is a very graceful sword,' he thought to himself. 'I need to be extremely careful.' At the sound of an unheard whip, Yunsung lunged forward with a stab with his left sword, followed by an upward slice with his right. Master Seung repelled each attack with his machete without moving an inch from his spot. 

"Attack in earnest, now." the master stated, almost poking fun at the boy, just as eerily calm. 'He asked for it,' Hong thought. He commenced with a sideway swipe into a front snap kick. Brining his power arm up, he initiated an exotic combination that could only be done on those particular types of swords. Master Seung simply parried each of the attacks.   
Yunsung then shifted his weight forward into a vertical leap, creating a vertical crescent slash. Master Seung had evaded youth's attacks and finally moved in with an attack of his own. As Hong landed, he was immediately sent onto a defensive stance. Master Seung was performing an exotic combination of his own. His relentless attacks were putting Hong's defensive capabilities to the max, allowing few chances for him to make an attack. A window of opportunity finally availed itself to Yunsung. Taking advantage, he blocked the machete's incoming strike with his left sword, while thrusting his right sword forward. Master Seung simply sidestepped to his left, while smoothly sweeping Yunsung off his feet. The youth fell hard on his back to the floor. He quickly attempted to get back up, but found the blade of the machete pointed at his throat. He had been defeated.   
'Damn…fell for the oldest trick in the book,' he told himself, disappointed with his own backfired maneuver, 'This day can't get any worse.'  
"Yunsung," remarked Seung, easing his stance, "if you cannot defeat me, how do you expect to beat Hwang?" The words crushed his spirit. How could he say that? Yet, it was true. Hwang will be the new master and Seung Han Myong admitted that Hwang had surpassed him. How could he beat him, if he couldn't beat his teacher. But he just had to. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that he could defeat Hwang. Master Seung kneeled and sat on the floor, placing the machete on his lap. Yunsung got up from the mat and sat on the floor in front of him, brushing himself off ceremoniously.   
"Now, what is troubling you?" he asked. Yunsung reflected a moment, although he knew perfectly well what was wrong.   
"No one believes in me. Everyone thinks that I'm some kid who always complains that I can do better…but I can do better, if they just gave me chance to prove it!" his volume too rose as he.  
"I had given you a chance, did I not?" Yunsung looked to the ground. He stood sat corrected there. "Hmm, continue," he replied, rubbing his chin.   
"Hwang, ignores my challenge. He still thinks of me as his little brother he never had, but I'm not little anymore and Seung Mina thinks the same."  
Master Seung stood up and walked to an ornate, mahogany box in the corner of the room. He flipped a latch and opened the long box, revealing its contents. The master brought forth a Chinese sword, with two golden eagles encasing it's grip on the steel blade. The handle was made out of an exotic material that even Master Seung did not know. He walked back to his student, how was by now standing. "This sword is called White Storm. It is family heirloom that has been passed down from generation to generation. It is believed that whoever holds this blade shall be able to reflect on his deepest thoughts and desires. It should do you well on your journey."  
"Journey?" Yunsung asked.  
"Yes, you were planning on seeking the Sword of Salvation, were you not?" his master questioned. The red-headed youth looked a little stunned.  
"Yes Master, but…" Master Seung brought up his hand and Yunsung shut up immediately with a waving palm, flattened before the flame-haired Korean. My young Yunsung. You have much to learn. In life, we take upon a journey to find our destiny. For you to take on a journey of this epic proportion shows your limitless determination and aspiration to be the best. Although you have trained well here, there are things that I cannot teach you within these walls. Take this sword and use it as your guide. Believe in it, and it will believe in you. Take this along with my blessing for safe journey, so you can come back to show me your growth." Yunsung was left a little awe-struck. Although he was cocky and temperamental, he was also a very emotional person. The fact was proven by a tear rolling down his cheek. He took the sword from Master Seung and bowed respectfully. His master did the same. Master Seung began walking out of the dojo to leave Yunsung alone. He stopped suddenly in his tracks and spoke.   
"Hwang was about the same age and skill as you, when he first left for his journey for the Sword of Salvation. I offered him that very sword, but he did not have a liking to it for some odd reason. Perhaps it is in better hands now." He walked off, as Yunsung smiled, looking at his reflection along the blade.


	4. The Trouble with Venice

Author's Note: Ok, by rights I should've waited for a bit more attraction before settin' up this chapter. But I couldn't resist. One thing is: Even though 2 have somehow reviewed this, I can't actually see it on the main page (I have to go into my profile to see the story and reviews). Perhaps I could be enlightened here? By the way, jade, lemme tell ya, this isn't the elder you think it is. Trust me. I've got all the twists ready and waiting. In fact, the next chapter will bring the first plot twist; see if you can decipher it. This chappie, though, is just some gory fun with my pirate friend.

****

**Chapter III – The Trouble with ****Venice******

A black flag, blazoned harshly with pure blackness, fluttered from the mast of the cold, calculating vessel that drifted over the waters of the Adriatic, bringing an air of grimness and ill winds with it as it neared the Italian coast.  
Cervantes de Leon's dead eyes, glazed over with malice-filled white, glanced out over the oceanic expanse, watching the waves heave and the oversea sky envelope the qualities of a lingering storm. Cervantes liked storms; they gave him an absorbed sense of peace for some reason which not even he knew. Sighing a gruff sigh, the pirate fixed his stern gaze on the small multicolored dots that pockmarked the horizon; a coastal city, most likely the city of Venice. Venice was not where he was headed, but he needed a checkpoint at least. _'Now then, it's been far too long since there's been blood on my blades,' _he murmured mentally to himself, diverting his pensive thoughts from grog and rum, _'Perhaps __Italy__ can boast some willing donors.'_  
The bustling commune of elegance and culture would be perfect for a little break from the usual crude pillaging. Despite being one of the boorish buccaneer lot, ever since his run in with the powers that be (so to speak), he'd realized that once could always create more in life. Being immortal, he didn't need food, sleep, or most things that other humans needed. Luckily, he had not been desensitized to life's pleasures. He planned to enjoy himself in Venice...considerably. He turned, removing his arms from the ship's pulpit. He turned, swiveling on his heels to survey the ship. He had commandeered a roomy four-masted barque and furnished it with a number of gilded ornaments eviscerated from merchant vessels. He'd keep its maiden name, the 'Charybdis' and set sail for the inland gulf of the Adriatic, hoping to head upward into Europe. The pirate supposed he wouldn't immediately dive right into a raid. That was far too blunt and he ran the risk of destroying delectable valuables. He could simply dock his vessel in the crowded harbor and then overtake the place when he found the time. He could simply settle somewhere nice, in the lap of luxury, until he saw it fit to continue on his journey into Europe's heart.

Cervantes de Leon had been sailing for weeks now, across the boundless Mediterranean, searching for more clues and subtle hints as to where he could locate more swords, or the twin of his own blade itself, the male Soul Edge weapon. The few clues he gained led him here.  
"Helmsman!" he called to the bellicose-looking fellow behind him, "Hard to port, set new course; north by northwest." the helmsman, who was leaning wearily on the ship's gold encrusted wheel, nodded glumly. Cervantes gave an indignant snort as he walked past him and onto the vessel's main deck. He had a relatively full crew, very diverse at this point. Brigands of all sort jumped at the opportunity to serve under an invincible pirate with promise of vast riches to appease them. They were from all manner of place, mainly countries surrounding the Mediterranean Sea. Most were strong, quality pirates who had adopted a chauvinistic loyalty to their leader, Captain Cervantes de Leon. The ship began swerving, leaving ripples in its massive wake.

The dark shadow that always preceded Cervantes wherever he went was cast over the beautiful city of Venice, Italy, as the mighty barque Charybdis lurched into the dock. It was the grandest of ships to be seen there in ages, furnished with all manner of material and power from other unfortunate ravaged vessels that had made the blatant mistake of crossing its captain, Cervantes. There, moving, almost lurching along through the bay was the ship. It stretched a seemingly infinite length, with a massive hull of dark wood, decked with plates of ebony metal bound together with iron cords. Above the lower hull which was submerged in the river sat three layers or levels of the ship, each a deck with long and thin walls with countless circular perforations, through which came great oars, each at least five times the size of any man. These oars rowed, slapping the water in rhythm and perfect union with a bizarre eeriness. Above the hull and three decks was a taller deck with only a few windows, each more elaborate and larger. This deck had walls that were inlaid with silver and a glistening material that resembled gold. Each window was surrounded by carvings of serpents, dragons, and incomprehensible shapes, perfect in every detail. Directly on top of that deck was a strange level with no perceivable purpose. Its walls were smooth obsidian with infinite shards of chipped jade dotting them.  
Finally came the main deck, which itself seemed to prove the size of the ship. This deck alone had three very narrow levels, each larger than the one beneath. The first level was thin and shaped around the next level, flanked at front and back by two raised decks. The second level was beneath the forward and aft decks, surrounding a final gargantuan platform covered with ropes and riggings. This highest level held four sturdy masts as thick as the mightiest of trees. The masts held two great black triangular sails, with the pointed tip of each facing downward, and one above with the pointed tip up. Above everything, beyond each mast, deck, and level, sat the crowning glory. Each of the four masts held a banner, fluttering in Venice's wind. The banners were all the same, bearing a black background and the white silhouette of three blades with the hilts facing inward to form a circular trinity. These banners seemed to swell as the winds carried them, absorbing the gaze of all eyes that fell upon them.   
The great hulk of iron and wood drifted to a halt near one of the wharfs of Venice's inner harbor and four large hooked anchors were hefted by several brawny figures to the four corners of the vessel and dropped into the waters, creating four simultaneous ripples that seemed to rock the wharf with their force. The ship fully stopped beside the swaying wharf as harbor workers, sailors, merchants, and simple passersby slowed to a stop around the wood buildings that pockmarked the dock. The gangplank of the vessel slowly peered downward, lowering onto the wharf. Cervantes proceeded past the elevated deck with his crew of surly brigands falling into a surprisingly neat rank behind him as he strode off the ship, down the makeshift bridge, and onto the dock.  
"Nice place," he remarked to the crewmember behind him on whom the witty comment was lost, "Too bad I have to destroy it someday."

"Excuse me...umm...sir." murmured a plump fellow in a gaudy suit who was now attempting vainly to keep up with Cervantes, "You have to pay for that ship you docked. I'd say a pretty hefty sum considering how much room it takes up." He was a vain-looking fool, fat and round and oversized, in all honesty. His face sported more chins than Cervantes cared to count, and his thick, frazzled head of brown hair was lined with strands of stress-induced gray.  
The man uttered a nervous laugh, obviously uncomfortable as Cervantes' dead eyes turned to him, looking grim, irritated, and filled with some horrible glee. The man scooted back, still walking alongside Cervantes, but slightly out of his range. The dread pirate merely turned away, stalking towards the city. He overlooked the beauteous, scenic Venetian skyline, his glazed over eyes, icy like frosted winter, surveying the evergreen shingles, lavish waterside apartments in the distance. Gondolas arched their ways gracefully over simmering paths made of crystal and calm water that lapped at the boat's sides. The folk about Cervantes wore lavish clothes, some extreme, gaudy, and tawdry, some with a more refined elegance.  
His crew had busied themselves removing necessaries from the grand bargue behind him and mooring the Charybdis to the wharf firmly. They were milling about on the dock now, mingling eerily, chatting conspiratorially, and whispering with leering mutters in their tone as fancily clad women strolled by along the watery sidewalks not far off. They spread out, exploring the area around the harbor with feline curiosity not befitting a piratical brigand.  
"Umm..sir? Did you not hear me? You have to pay for tha-"  
Cervantes cut him off, stopping sharply and whipping Nirvana to the miserable fellow's double chin. He turned swiftly and emitted what sounded like a gruff and gutteral growl of a most animalistic fashion from the pit of his throat.  
"I am inclined to disagree, you pathetic whelp. My ship stays where it is and payment for its presence is unnecessary. Is that clear?" He pressed the blade in slightly, the rest of his bod perfectly rigid and calm as if he was not holding a blade to someone's vital parts and perfectly prepared to sever his head from his shoulders without hesitation or a second thought. "Y-yes, sir. But what of all the other ships who want to dock?" The harbormaster gulped, his adam's apple bumping against the precise point of Nirvana and drawing a bead of blood that made its way down the length of his tawdry waistcoat.  
"That's your problem, friend, not mine." snarled the pirate, lowering his blade as he continued walking forward, away from the man. Suddenly, he stopped again. He paused in mid-step for a long and drawn out moment as his pallid head turned to glance at the hapless man.

"Actually, I have the perfect solution to your problem." he said, grinning a ghastly grin as his whole body spun back towards the harbormaster. "Really?" he replied enthusiastically. Cervantes kept smirking that smirk that caused the eager harbormaster to stutter as he spoke. "You don't want to be burdened by the presence of my ship?" The pirate's voice let loose a dripping of unholy pleasantness, so decked with sugar that it was practically sickening. Still, the harbormaster was enthusiastic.  
"Indeed, I must say that is the case." Muttered he, now fidgeting with nervous anticipation and rubbing his flabby hands together.  
"Fine. You won't have to deal with it, or anything else, ever again."  
The man didn't even have time to grunt as his limp body slid off Cervantes' gun-sword and crumpled in a pathetic heap on the wooden planks of the dock. There was, of course, an inevitable number of shrieks and interjections from those on the wharf, but Cervantes ignored them as he kicked the body into the waiting sea and the water slowly become diluted with its oozing blood. "That oughtta solve his problems." muttered the pirate, swerving expertly on his armored heel and strolling into the city as other harbor-goers took notice of his unfortunate victim, bobbing in the water like a misplaced buoy. There were screams and shrieks and horrified yells, but they just blended into a perfect harmony in Cervantes. He escaped the roar of the crowd with ease, his exuberant garb blending in synch with the strange clothing of Venetians. He headed towards the watery roads, moving away from the stuffy innards of the swelling mass of people that had gathered around the blood-soaked wharf and were gawking at the thing floating face down in it.

Cervantes, followed by his dull crew who lurked around behind, following their captain loyally and dutifully. Cervantes only required a few for the job ahead and dismissed the rest to pillage as they pleased in Venice. He would indeed be pleased if they picked out some nice stuff for his growing collection, some admirable trinkets. They would probably stoop to picking pockets without his mastering hand to guide them. It didn't take long for Cervantes to spot an uninhabited gondola floating wistfully along Venice's roads of water with no passengers to heed it.

"Good day, signore." he said in simple Italian. Being a pirate for decades allowed one to pick up aspects of most of Europe's major languages, since he often needed to speak to the foreign traders he looted and murdered. Clever witticisms are always lost on your victims if they don't understand what you're saying. The gondola swerved slightly, drifting sideways as Cervantes walked along the mooring beside it. Not waiting for the Italian to reply, as was customary, he leapt squarely into the watery vehicle and tugged the vessel sideways again. Deciding to go with the flow for a good tip, the gondolier shrugged it off and rowed. "Dove voi gradiscono andare?" queried the gondolier, rowing in stride as the small ship seemed to glide over gentle waters, despite all of the people in other gondolas who had taken notice of the ominous pirate sitting in this particular one. Cervantes analyzed momentarily, gritting yellowed teeth. _''Where are we going?' was what he said.'_ concluded the captain.  
"Just keep rowing 'till I say stop." said Cervantes curtly.  
He surveyed the beautiful houses of Venice, borne on the ranking elevated platforms above oceanic roadways for the Venician equivalent of horses, the sleek gondola. This section of the city was not quite as well furnished as the mansion-brimming sector, not far from where Cervantes' vessel was currently floating. One large house stood out, almost overly tawdry in its incredible extravagance. It was studded with gleaming decadence of perfectly polished alabaster with a row of narrow columns on the broad patio in front which stretched down onto the water's edge with a small decked wharf for personal gondolas and lined on each side with the Venician bazaars which seemed to flock around the great villa.  
"Chi ha casa e quello?" murmured the pirate, his cold, dead eyes staring keenly at the structure as he leaned on the gondola's bow. _'Who's house is that? Who does that villa belong to?'_ "Oh, that is the house of Signor Massimo Senicci," said the gondolier, struggling with Cervantes' crude English, "He is a wealthy landowner who lives in Roma. That is merely a villa he purchased for retreats."  
"Do you think Signor Senicci would mind terribly if I took care of that house for him?" grinned the pirate as the gondola pulled up alongside it.  
"Perdono? Che cosa era quello, signore?" _'What did you say?' _translated Cervantes swiftly.  
"Oh, nothing." muttered Cervantes de Leon, now ignoring the gondolier. As the gondola bounced gently on the moored sidewalk, Cervantes stepped off nimbly and brushed some stray droplets of water off the waistcoat hanging at his shoulders. The gondolier tapped him indignantly on the shoulder. "The tip, signore..." he said, both insistent, confident, and intimidated. Cervantes grinned away from him, "Ah, yes. The tip."  
Cervantes didn't even bother turning around. His sword was out in an instant and stabbed behind him. He strolled forward without a second thought, letting the corpse of the gondolier drag for a moment on his reversed blade before it peeled off and collapsed in a pool of blood on the shimmering whiteness of the marble stairs. _'Two down, but that just whets my appetites.'_  
It was certainly a nice villa. Very large, roomy, showy, a real piece of artwork. It surely contained all manner of things Cervantes might like. Of course, he would have to make it his entirely, and add a few alterations when he found the time. It was a long walk across above-water courtyards ripe with flowery bushes to the actual villa, which was decked with angular verandas and porches that stuck out, hanging delicately over the water's surface. Though he paid no heed to his instincts, something about this mansion drew Cervantes towards it. He walked up onto the final flight of long steps, almost miniature porches in themselves, and up to the grandiose, silver plated double doors of the Senicci villa.

To his shock and pleasant surprise, his force wasn't needed to gain entrance. As he knocked firmly upon the metal, the door creaked and shrieked in protests as its un-oiled hinges bowed to the enterer and swung open. The door had been open already. Curling his fingers nimbly about the icy steel of Nirvana's sheath, rubbing his finger on the gun built into it and caressing the muzzle of the firearm as he prepared to whip it out and dispose of anyone who stood in his way, Cervantes stepped carefully inside, quickly scanning the small but well lit foyer.

An all-too-familiar smell filled his nostrils. It was the scent of blood, the scent of death, wafting all around him. His clean white eyes darted down and a malicious grin creased over his rotting flesh as he saw what lay on the scarlet-hued carpet in front of him. There, on the ground, swimming in a pool of fleshy ooze, was the corpse of a young girl in the dress of a maid or servant. Her hand was still clenched around air as it would have been if the dead female had been holding the great doorknob. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, cuts covered her body, and her humble dress was torn open at the chest in a great red hole where both murky fluid and great lumps of organ spilled out onto the floor around her, bleaching the intricate designs on the lavish carpet. Someone had gotten to her before Cervantes.

The pirate, sniffing the smell and sighing happily, continued through the foyer and into the smaller hallways. He smelled more blood, more death and decay. In another room, hanging out of the threshold, was on older female whose face was invisible under the gooey mess of splattered blood that now covered the floor beneath her imploded cranium and body torn to ribbons by some short-range weapon, knives perhaps. Finally, as Cervantes de Leon headed suspiciously down the hall, he heard a sound other than the gushing of crimson fountains. It was unfamiliar, but the dread pirate followed it all the same into the more dimly lit hallways until he reached a room with the large, wooden door hanging open. Without hesitation, he pushed open the door and headed inside, his eyes swiftly falling upon the only figure in the room, rooting through something at the other end.

"You again!" he roared, recognition flowing into his astonished face, his sideburns practically bristling on his stubbly face. The only response he got was a sinister hissing sound from the other man's face. _'Voldo!'___


	5. Shuriken Shortcuts

Author's Note: Thanks to my first reviewers. Hopefully, when this story has more people, people will start noticing. I should probably put R & R in the summary, but I usually don't. The purpose of this story was originally to get some feedback on it, so I will value any thought-out reviews. Thanks in advance to all who have the courage to do so. For the next chappie (which is done already) I WILL wait until I have at least another review, unless there really aren't any. I won't keep any current fans waiting too long in that case, I'm too soft. Also, I'm having some extremely irksome formatting problems…yeah, so I hope this chapter looks okay. Since I now have Chap.'s 1-7 (8 including prologue) written and 9 almost done, there will be updates very frequently. Here's my first Chapter with some real action in it. Some Chapters will be nothing but.

Disclaimer: I don't own SC2, could you guess? Namco does, not me, oh no, no indeed.

_Jeff Heigh_ – To answer your questions: 1) No, no exclusive characters. I find that a story about Soul Calibur should remain about Soul Calibur, rather than the inclusion of unneeded characters from other games. I don't dislike the exclusive genre, but I don't write that way. 2) You've hit the nail on the head. That's exactly what's going to happen. About two fourths of the main characters will be introduced by Chap. 6 or so, but more characters will be introduced into other storylines almost by each chapter. I won't give anything away, but this a very full, almost novelized version of SC2/3. It will have all characters, from all the three games (excluding Li Long, who is dead).

_Avion__ Jade: _Hey, glad you like it. I hope you've at least touched on SC1 or Soul Blade, or else some of the plot might elude you. Otherwise, there will be plenty of character development for everyone, so if you haven't heard of some, you will soon figure out who they are.

**Chapter IV – Shuriken Shortcuts******

Hong Yunsung could hear his fellow comrades going about their training in the distance. It was a normal day at Master Seung's dojo. Everyone was following their usual routines, everyone except for Yunsung that is. He stood on a wooden plank bridge that went over the dojo moat. _'I guess no one's going to say goodbye,'_ he thought to himself. _'It doesn't matter anyway. Master Seung wouldn't have let me go if he didn't think I was ready. He believed in me and gave me his blessings. That's all I need.'_ He overlooked Master Seung's dojo one last time before his departure - his home for the past fourteen years of his life. He couldn't help but to reminisce on the good and bad times he had here. For a split second, he thought this might be his last gaze upon his home, but deep down he knew he would return, and unlike his rival Hwang, he would return victorious.  
The red-headed youth bowed respectfully toward the entrance. Turning around with his burlap bag over his shoulder, his new sword in his hand and a smile upon his face, he took his first step on what would be his first adventure.   
  
**…**  
  
The fresh aroma of pine filled the air as the youth traveled down a country road toward the seaport village of Pusan. He had heard rumors that the Sword of Salvation was recently seen somewhere in southeast China. The quickest way to get there would be by boat, but Pusan was a three day hike through the Puchong Forest. Yunsung knew the seaport like the back of hand. There was only two ways to get there from Chili-san. Travel along the coast on the main road that cut through his hometown or go through the dirt road through the forest. The forest was the fastest route, but he also knew that it was the most dangerous. The seclusion of the area meant many thieves and manipulates, but he wasn't worried. He could take care of himself…he was Yunsung after all.   
After several hours of uneventful traveling, the sun was finally beginning to show signs of age . . . the first day of his journey at an end. He had made excellent progress, jogging for at least have the day. He traversed down a small hill, leaving the road and heading toward the sound of rippling water. A shallow stream ran alongside the road for the majority of the distance to Pusan, so water wasn't an issue. He placed his sword and bag on the ground as he knelt over toward the edge of the stream. Cupping his hand, he scooped up some water in his palm and drank it. Hong sat back on a large boulder while pulling his burlap bag closer. His hand searched the contents of the bag while the youth surveyed the tranquil area around him. Not a soul for miles…except one, who Yunsung was alerted to by the snap of a twig.

Yunsung's eyes narrowed, as he paused for a brief second. Keeping his ears open, he continued to pull out a small, orange pear and placed it on flat piece of flagstone. Taking his sword in his right hand, he casually cut the pear in half. He then procured a slice and proceeded to take a big chunk out of it. With his sword still in his right hand, he looked at his reflection on the large blade and slowly rotated it to the right. Chewing on the sweet fruit, he observed the images on the sword as the trees behind him passed in and out of the sword's sight, until it caught a fix on a tree with a very peculiar inhabitant on it…a ninja. Realizing that he was caught, the ninja made a break for it. Swallowing the piece of pear, he sprinted off with great speed in pursuit of the ninja. He wasn't going to let _this_ one get away. Yunsung made sure to keep good eye contact on the fleeing opponent. Ninjas were known to be slick and could disappear at a blink of an eye. The ninja could still hear the presence of the youth behind him. He untied a pouch along his waist and began dropping its contents on the grass; tetsu-bishi, small spiked masses used to deter cavalry. However, the caltrops were thrown in haste, as the youth easily somersaulted over them. Upon landing, he grabbed one of them and continued on his chase.   
Dissatisfied that his escape route was not successful, the ninja pulled out several shuriken and hurled them at the advancing swordsman. The throwing stars unraveled into three separate blades, but with his new sword, the young Yunsung batted all of them away with a huge grin. "You'll have to do better than that!" he shouted in a cocky voice. The black assassin threw a smoke bomb toward the ground. Heavy white smoke exploded from the tiny capsule. The ninja shot up to a tree limb and began traveling along the branches of the gingko trees.   
_ 'Oh no you don't'_ the redhead jumped straight for a tree. Using his leg muscles, he pushed himself away, ascending higher toward a nearby tree. Upon contact with the second tree, he was able to push off it with his left leg, ascending even higher. With the split seconds of seeing the ninja at eye level, he threw the four-pointed caltrop with force straight for the escaping ninja. The caltrop lodged directly onto the ninja's back, sending him ungracefully to the ground with a thump. "That's music to my ears," he chuckled as he placed a perfect landing a few feet away from the enemy. Now the ninja was angry. He pulled the caltrop from his back and flung it across the small opening they were standing in. Yunsung ducked just in time to see the weapon lodged into a tree, he then turned around to face his opponent. Yet all he could see was a small, one-handed kasuri-gama, a slender scythe and a shortened rod (perhaps two feet long in all) with a weighty chain and sphere twirling around its length, swinging at full length toward his torso. He hopped back, narrowly eluding the blade of the curved scythe. The moment his feet touched the ground, he made a dash for his opponent. Yunsung came in with a high side kick, aimed straight for the ninja's head. Instead, the ninja sidestepped in the knick of time, but was unaware of the boy's excellent kicking skills when he seamlessly twisted his body with a hopping turn kick with his opposite leg.

            As Yunsung flew, he managed to take in the look of his assailant. He wore black, as ninja's did, and seemed to be nearly wreathed in the color. The bizarre weapon, the kasuri-gama was held firmly in his right hand and swinging, while the rest of his ninja repertoire remained hidden all along his person. No markings, nothing to tell him apart from another black-clad shadow was born by him. Only the strange weapon that he held served as distinguishable. It occurred to Yunsung that this ninja was not particularly good with the scythe and chain, since he was continually moving to avoid it. Even Yunsung could guess that a real master of the device would not need to dodge his own attacks, no matter how powerful.  
The redhead's foot connected cleanly against the opponent's side as he dove in with a forward thrust of his sword. The assassin parried it the scythe, but with the flexibility of the kasuri-gama, the ninja, with his left hand, whipped the attached chain across Yunsung's face. Stinging instantly formed at Hong's right cheek, but it was the speeding roundhouse kick that was coupled with the chain attack that sent Yunsung toward a large tree. More pain began swelling in his chest. The youth turned and pushed away from the tree, escaping the incoming swipe of the scythe as it lodged into the trunk. The ninja attempted to pull his weapon, but to no avail. Yunsung sped in with a crane kick. The ninja, quick to see it coming, sidestepped, reversing with another swing of the chain attached to the scythe. Yunsung ducked and then parried a low, heel kick with his open hand. Retaliating with a horizontal crescent slash from his crouched position, the black assassin flipped up and was standing atop of Hong's shoulders! The boy couldn't move at the shock of the impeccable balance of the ninja. The black-clothed menace hopped down, but delivered a nasty kick to Yunsung's back. The ninja was able to pull the sickle from the truck as the red-headed Hong bounced nimbly back to his feet.

_'This guy's not too bad,' _Hong thought to himself. He began advancing forward, but his sly opponent suddenly shot out a feathered dart from his fukiya (bamboo blowpipe). The startled teen barely flicked it away with his sword, but it was a part of the ninja's plan as the chain of his weapon wrapped around White Storm. Without warning, Yunsung and the ninja were playing tug-of-war. Hong's muscles tensed, showing his well-defined arms as he struggled to keep his sword in possession. The ninja attempted to swing the bladed end of his weapon around, but it was out of reach. Frustrated, the ninja pulled a low growing tree branch, giving him more leverage.   
The ninja was sure that he'd let go of the sword, but to his amazement, the boy had slid into a front leg split…and was still holding on to the blasted sword. The assassin moved in, attempting to capitalize on Yunsung's awkward position, with a snapping axe kick. Yunsung saw the falling kick and grabbed the ninja's calf with his open hand, remaining in his split stance. He effortlessly pushed it away while sweeping him onto his back. The boy rolled over, smacking the ninja's face with an elbow strike. Dazed, the next thing the assassin felt was a knee crushing over his chest while seeing the blade of Yunsung's sword across his neck. "I'm just going to ask you once," Yunsung stated with a breathy tone. "Who are you and why are you following me?" Hong's chest heaved up and down, gasping for air as he awaited an answer. The ninja, not speaking a word, quickly pushed himself forward, forcing his neck against the redhead's weapon. The sword cut cleanly through the assassin's neck as thick, crimson blood squirted into Yunsung's face. The ninja took whatever information he had to his grave, leaving Hong without any answers.  
Under normal circumstances, the redheaded youth would have been celebrating and bragging about his victory, but this one was different . . . much different. All of his years of training could not have prepared him for this. He looked into the empty eyes of this dead opponent, staring out unto the glowing red sky. Even though he embarked on a long and treacherous journey, Yunsung had never envisioned killing someone. Despite the fact that his weapon was designed for that sole purpose, the boy looked at his blade, tainted with the blood of his opponent. He slowly rubbed his face and then gazed upon his fingertips . . . fingertips marked with the blood of his first kill. He slowly stood up, solemn-faced and bowed to his deceased opponent. With his bloodstained face and sword, Hong slowly walked back to where he left his other belongings. A few moments later, Yunsung had finished wiping the blood off his face and sword. The blood dissipated into the stream as it flowed away. He stared at the reflection on his blade.   
_ "Was this the thing Master Seung could not teach from within his walls_?" He wasn't sure his plan was so great after all. He didn't want to kill anybody, all he wanted to do was bring back the one thing that would save his country and prove that he was better than Hwang. Hong continued staring at the sword until he finally fell asleep.


	6. The Giant and the Frenchman

Author's Note: Hey, hey, hey, as they say; some more things to say, now. Firstly, I find that I have really rushed through these first ten chapters, A LOT. So, they will be comparatively shorter than my others, which will probably be LONG. I hurry because, my favorite plot twists, and new introductions, take place in Chap. 12-22, so I've been rushing off Chap. 1-12, obviously. In my hurry, I have them almost all done. But I hesitate to put them all up at once. I want to let reviewers and readers come along before the story has developed too much. I will probably update almost daily until I reach Chap. 12, when Chapters will take longer to write. Secondly, now I introduce new characters. As Jeff Heigh analyzed, I will be introducing ALL characters over the course of time, even if they don't appear till the last ten chapters (bear with me, people, we're looking at upwards of 40, I mean it this time).

Avion Jade: Thanks for reviewing again, much. I always try to make my fight scenes 'picturesque' cuz my favorite thing to do is visualize them. That's how my story is planned out; I'm imagining it like a really long CG Movie in my head. Trust me, it really does work. Yes, it's a bit bloody…and I'm afraid it gets worse. This was originally rated R, but I downgraded it for a) more reviews and b) it didn't really have many R Rated qualities. I'm glad you've played SC1, because you might not recognize my next character if you hadn't. I believe I'm only the third person on FF.net to even use this character in a story. Apparently, he's just not very popular. Well, what the hell…Onward with the stuffage_!!!!1!!!!1!!!!1!!!shiftone!!!!_

Jade: Heh, contemplating putting back the R Rating…after I have more reviews…Mitsu will get his day, in time. I'm saving him for later…

**Chapter V – The Giant and the Frenchman**

            The mists were strong, wistful and careless as they floated over amber fields that spread in every direction like supple waves beneath the alighting cloak of dawn. The sun had crested a deep blue horizon, tinting the sky cool red and heating up a new day over those fields below. The sun began shining down as its form rippled up over the skyline, cresting the few hills to the side of the rider, cloaked carefully, who rode along beneath it. The great fiery vessel that arched upward along its path in the sky did not deign to look upon the rider, instead haughtily marketing itself to all others. Raphael de Sorel goaded his steed onward, his thoughts unavoidably going back to Amy as he and his mount soared onward through the makeshift path that had formed itself in the field, leaving a trail off hoof prints in the flattened stalks of crop. The Frenchman's eyes narrowed and his fine brow furrowed in a scowl as he felt a pang of regret at leaving her behind. It had been a hard choice in itself, to let Amy remain with Raphael's few loyal compatriots, who had promised amply to tend to her and keep in good health in his absence. _'It was the choice I had to make,' _he thought, _'I could not have her come with me, she would hate sea travel, and the dangers would unnerve her. It is better this way.' _And indeed it probably was. He didn't want Amy in anything remotely resembling peril, since he wouldn't be able to stand seeing her afraid. She had been afraid once, but was not now.

            The city of Le Havre loomed in the distance, though looming was not necessarily the word to describe it. Small, neatly cordoned roofs speckled the distant area, lacking of tree or natural beauty. It was not as dazzling as Rouen, or perhaps Paris in its regal splendor, but possessed a quant gentility and still bore the title of a bustling thoroughfare. It was a port city, the fluttering sails of ships visible behind the bare façade of houses and buildings. The harbor was the main attraction, filled with ships of varying sizes for varying needs, cruising vessels, frigates, sloops, barques, and all manner of vessel that rode the waves. It was a veritable cornucopia of necessary transportation for Raphael de Sorel. In the old days, Raphael de Sorel could've bought a ship easily with the surplus fortunes of the Sorel family, but those days were passed and driven from the front of the Frenchman's focused mind, as sharp and acute as the rapier in his belt after years of training. Now, Raphael no longer burdened himself with weak thoughts, those of his father, his brothers, his mother, his family, the picturesque Chateau de Sorel, still nestled in the lush countryside of Rouen not a great distance from where he rode this very day. He missed the looming spires of alabaster, the stained glass windows placed by his ancestors long dead, the sparring rooms where he and his teacher fenced the day away. But, as he told himself, that was in the past.

            Within Le Havre, the quiet that had been so aptly present evaporated. People where everywhere, on ailing mule and noble steed, on dingy wagon or part of any grand caravan that wormed its way through the claustrophobic streets, all around Raphael. The buildings were overshadowed alone by the crowds that pulsed and flowed over them as waves would. Great brimmed hats, spiky helms, and every sort of flourishing headgear littered the roads like a graveyard brimming with statuary headstones, but Raphael was not deterred as he kicked his steed forward, working his way through. At the dock, some of the hustle and bustle flailed madly before disappearing altogether. Just before Raphael reached the harbor of Le Havre, he found himself locked inescapably in a surging tidal mass of people, who seemed to have no idea what they were doing whatsoever. He managed to ford the proverbial river of people and found himself walking down eerily empty wharfs with the varying vessels moored to them. After abandoning his horse at the harbormaster's rickety old shack on the waterfront, Raphael managed to appropriate a list of ships bound for his destination; India. After chartering the vessels, and looking over their visible statistics with a number of solemn nods, Raphael wormed back through the slight crowd swell, and towards the south bound vessels, which seemed to be unavoidably smaller than the others.

            The only one that managed to pique Raphael's curiosity was the largest one, still small by ship standards. It was more a mess of riggings and ropes and hooks strung along every square inch of it. It's magnificently white sails rippled majestically in the oceanic breeze. Upon the brow, the smooth wooden visage of a mermaid, her scaly aquatic tale curled onto the deck, could be seen peering out at the sea in front. On the other end of the vessel, on the carved oaken wall of the captain's quarters, the words 'Marie Rose' were carefully etched and painted, though the prominent green was dulled now. Considering the vessel, Raphael headed slowly up the gangplank, watching some sinuous men go about their business aboard. Suddenly, he found his face filled with another face, one with scratchy stubble, a sagged eyelid, a thick brow, and long, unkempt black hair.

            "Good day, sir. If yer lookin' fer a ship, this'll be the one fer you." roared the fellow, projecting a supply of saliva into Raphael's face. Grimacing in disgust, Raphael stepped back and rubbed his glove on his wet nose, snarling inaudibly at the vulgar oaf who berated him.

            "I'm not in the ship market, mister?"

            "Rush, sir, William Rush," confirmed the man, "but you can call me Bill." Raphael, listening to the slurred speech of the man, looked him over as well. He wore dull green leather as a waistcoat, a tattered undershirt, hanging breeches to big for him, oversized hunting boots, and wore a vile smile on his rustic features. "Very well, _Bill_. Though I have not the funds to buy such a 'magnificent' ship, I believe I will book passage on it. This vessel is bound for the south, yes? For that is where I must go, and if that is not this ship's destination, I will find other transportation."

            "Yes sir, it is. Bound right south and right around the very tip o' the dark lands." Raphael new that the man meant 'Africa' when he said 'the dark lands.' In fact, the Frenchman guessed that this idiot didn't even know that he was talking about a continent called Africa. "Indeed. Well, this shall do just fine; this ship for the voyage, and this gold for the ship." Raphael coolly extracted a small, creased purse from his frock coat, sifted in his gloved hand for a moment, listening to and allowing Rush to hear the noise of jingling coinage within. Throwing it up and catching it in his hand, Raphael de Sorel plopped the entire pouch onto the cracked skin of Rush's open-palmed hand. "Thankee, sir." grinned Rush, showing yellow teeth. "You'll be wantin' to go get settled, find some quarters, and get some food or drink."

            "Yes, I think the last one is most appealing. Where exactly could I get some of that food and drink?"

            "The mess hall is belowdeck. You'll like the cook, trust me. Just don't bother the regulars."

            Dutifully, trying to dismiss this man, Raphael marched icily past him and across the tangled ropes that covered the deck, dodging past a number of surly sailors. He found the small, low door that led below, hunched over ignobly, and crawled through it, heading down a flight of rickety stairs into a small, candlelit room with some shivering rays of sunshine peeking in through glass windows. He was in the equivalent of an onboard pub. The room rocked gently as Raphael walked through the vague light and plopped himself on a weak stool in front of the bar. There were only two other men in the room. One, who Raphael didn't even look at, was the grizzled old bartender, who was busily polishing the insides of some rusty, dented tin tankards. The other, who the Frenchman's eyes turned to and could not peel away from, was the giant man sitting next to him on a grossly undersized stool. He was huge, literally, bulging healthy muscles and wearing little but some fur and tanned leather. His chest was bare, but for a belt strung across it, and his head was a mess, covered with uncombed hair that stuck out every which way and an untrimmed beard on his chin. He looked almost savage as he nursed and empty mug and laid his bulky hand on what looked like the head of a moose or some animal Raphael had never seen. The head, which was in fact that of a buffalo, sat, hollowed out as a grotesque helm.

            Raphael de Sorel finally tore his gaze from the hefty man. "Hello," murmured Raphael at last to the bartender "I'll have something to drink, please." The vulgar face of the bartender lit up and glanced at him, shooting him a careless look. "Ale or grog, mister." He said wearily. "Ummm…ale, I suppose." stammered Raphael, searching his frock for more gold. "Roight." Responded the bartender, still unemotional, as he poured a supply of frothy liquid into a dirty mug and slammed it on the bar. Before Raphael's hand could get the mug, though, that surly hand belonging to the other man curled its mighty fingers around it, pulled up the tankard, and emptied its contents into the man's gaping mouth.

            "Excuse me, I do believe that was mine." protested Raphael, swiveling to face the man. "Mine." Snapped the other man bluntly, not turning his head from the now empty mug and licking his lips of froth. "Sir, I'm very sure that was my ale you just drank." protested Raphael, his brow forrowing. "My ale," more curtness from the brute, "not yours. Don't bother me." Raphael, pulling his hand ignobly from the bar, got up. "Monsieur, I do not take thievery lightly." For the first time, the huge man's head turned to the dwarfed Frenchman. His grizzled, wholly serious face bore an oddly devilish grin as he too stood, looming like a tower over a hut above Raphael, "Really? I don't take rude little bastards lightly."

            "That is an insult." roared Raphael, his hand shooting to Flambert, "Where I come from, such things are unacceptable without retribution." He knew he should be more careful. It was foolhardy to start a fight less than an hour after boarding this vessel, but his pride spoke for him. "Where _I _come from you'd be long dead by now, mister." snapped the other man, grimacing openly. His monstrous hand thumped down on the bar, splintering some of the wood, and glided backward to the course wooden staff of a heavy ax that sat upon the table. The bartender, nodding knowingly as he didn't look up at the two, moved back and away, into the safer shadows of the room behind the bar. "You insolent buffoon! Are you _looking _for a fight?" shouted Raphael at the top of his lungs, whipping out his rapier with a flourishing gesture and a clean, swift, airy sound. The slender blade was aimed at the other man, who growled back, "You're the one looking, and I think you've found one."

            'En garde!"

            The two of them surged forward. Raphaels' precise and narrow rapier flying with fast jabs were easily knocked aside by the savage's massive ax blade. They battled swiftly backward, downing all four of the barstools in a minute. The large man's ax hammered with unending resolution onto the floor, splintering the slivers of wood out of the floorboards, rending the stools in half, and stabbing ruthlessly at the bar and tables wherever Raphael managed to dodge toward. Raphael was the first to attempt a flashier, less blunt maneuver. Running up the side of one stool, he leapt gracefully over its flattened top, into the air with a nimble flourish, and aimed the heel of his boot at this opponent. The boot struck home, amazingly, crashing into the enemy's jaw. But, Raphael de Sorel found his foot suddenly restricted, as he careened down and saw the still ground seemingly hovering beneath him. He looked up, to see the warrior, now bleeding slightly from cracked lips, holding him upside down. Growling murderously, the man pulled his rusty ax back, but Raphael thought quickly enough. With his free leg, he buried his toe in the man's chest, sending the two of them to the ground in a heap.

            The other was up first, and yanked his ax down in a diagonal arc, which spurted up the floorboards of the pub cabin in which they fought. Pushing off with leg and foot, Raphael rolled sideways and ended up beneath a small table at the opposite end of the room. Raphael knew the next move as a chess player would predict his opponent's, and jumped out from beneath the table just as his barbaric foe's weapon cleaved it perfectly in two. Suddenly, the flat portion of the ax blade bashed Raphael's side, propelling him into the bar. As he hit it, his gut lurched violently, and his weakened body involuntarily flipped over it onto the other side. As Raphael flipped about as he lay there, nestled between bar and wall, he looked up to see a passive bartender still cleaning his mugs as the fight swirled around him. Angry and irked now, Raphael clamored over the wood and leapt again, this time to be met with the ax's handle firmly in the upper chest. The wind flew swiftly from him as he landed neatly on his behind, leaning against the bar and panting. He was up again, his rapier blazing madly, after barely a moment. Twice, his blade nicked the surly arms of his foe as they crashed about the room, spending every last ounce of their energy battling over a foolish insult and…

            As suddenly as they'd began, they stopped, both tired beyond belief, sweating bullets, and reduced to stumbling about just to steady themselves. Raphael lowered Flambert, and his foe lowered the ax. As they breathed their ragged, slow, and full breaths, their eyes met, faces actually smiling.

            "I must say…" said Raphael heartily in between deep breaths, shaking his head and laughing, "that was a good fight…my friend." Rock shot a dark look at him, but this time it was tempered with a very well hidden smirk. "I am not …your friend." Replied the man, his rough voice becoming a little more gently, "If you're gonna call me something…call me Rock." Raphael shot him an equally quizzical look. "That is an…umm…interesting name, good Rock." Raphael managed to muttered contemplating the monosyllabic name. He walked towards Rock, recovering his breath and holding his weakened lungs. He extended an open palm to Rock, "I am Raphael de Sorel." Rock grabbed his hand firmly in his own and shook vigorously as he set his ax down delicately. "Someday, I might tell you my real name, mister Serol."

            "That's Sorel." Corrected Raphael coldly, removing his hand and pulling the barstool up to sit on. "Right, right, _Sorel__._Got it." Rock turned from Raphael and sat, nearly crushing the only standing chair in the room with his bulk. Raphael, still breathing slowly with consecutive breaths, looked quizzically at Rock as he slumped on the bar. "What brought you to this ship, anyway?" he queried, his fit of eternal pants ceasing. "Goin' south, needed ship." responded Rock, just as blunt and laconian as ever. "Ah, qu'elle coincide- I mean, what a coincidence." Raphael stopped himself before going off in French, "I am going south as well."

            "Where too?" queried Rockm asking a question for the first time. "India." nodded Raphael, almost mocking the utter bluntness of his new compatriot. Rock grimaced, his eyes narrowing slightly as he responded, "Same here." Raphael laughed again, but more nervously. "Now _that _is a coincidence." The Frenchman grinned, leaning back on the stool as far as possible.

            "Yes, yes it is."


	7. Like Clockwork

Author's Note: Ok, here's Chap 6 (7 counting Prologue). I think it moves way too fast, but as I said, most chapters before Ch. 12 will be short and after will be long. This chapter contains the first plot twist, though it's not much of one. Forgive my egotistical nature, but I just realized that a lot of the fics in this section that have less chapters, and are shorter overall, with less content therein, have a lot more reviews than this. Big thanks out to my reviewers already, and a swift magnetic force applied to those who haven't reviewed yet. I need that feedback, people, criticism or what have you.

YF: Thankfully, I won't, and can't lose the internet, because I have a 'back-up computer' with everything on it too, so I can upload Chapters there. With the old ones, the loss only contributed because I found myself losing interest in all of those stories and his plot holes. In this one, that won't happen, because I'm way to eager to get to certain chapters, so I write up a storm to get there. This one's goin' for the big one, as they say. First ten chapters will be a little bland, but after that; epic battles, one-on-one megafights, the works...

Disclaimer: Guess what? I don't own SC2. Namco does. Me =/= them

**Chapter VI – Like Clockwork**

"GONE?" Seung Mina howled, eyes blazing, at her father, "How could he be gone? Why did he leave?" she roared, with less of a feminine air than her father cared for, though he didn't judge her based on that. "Peace, my child." Master Seung raised a calming hand and another, each with flattened palms that gripped those of his daughter gently. His fate is not here, whether you want it to be or not." He tried to whisper gently, but she seemed overly agitated. "What are you insinuating?...You don't think that-"

"No, of course not," Seung hid a throaty chuckle as he continued speaking to his alarmed child, "but, as I said, his fate is not here. There is no seeking after him, for as gone for a purpose he must see to. It was inevitable; you and I both knew he needed to do this." Mina scowled both openly and visibly. If ancient Seung didn't know better, he would've assumed she was pouting. "Needed to? He's just gone off somewhere to pout!" she protested. The two of them, father and daughter, were in Yunsung's room, having recently found the extremely curt note he left. The news had not spread, but it soon became obvious that Yunsung was gone. Mina was the first to take the initiative and investigate, finding the contents of young Hong's room. Now, her father had joined her within as she rooted haplessly through his belongings. She did not care deeply that he'd left, but when she was told by her parent that Yunsung had taken that sword, things changed.

"You know that's not true, Mina." Scolded Seung, sitting his daughter on Yunsung's bed as he crumpled up the miniscule piece of parchment with some Korean chicken scratch scribbled hurriedly upon it and laying on a bedside table. "Yes, I know, but there doesn't seem to be any other reason." grumbled Mina, getting up and pushing her father's arms from her shoulders as she paced across the room, contemplating her rash cohort's idiotic actions. "He wants to prove himself, just as he always has." Mina looked insatiable as she picked up her tirade before the jist of Seung's words sank in. "But, the sword. What about the sword he-" Seung interrupted before she went off on another melodramatic tirade, "I didn't expect him to _take _it, but it is no great loss."

"So, you're just going to have us forget that he's gone?" she queried angrily. "No," replied Seung, turning from Mina an examining some of the cobweb-collecting volumes that lay unread on that table, "I'm just going to have us remember him and hope he finds what he's looking for."

"I think we have other things to worry about."

Both father and daughter turned abruptly as the small door to the cozy, cramped room swung open. In walked, or rather stood on the threshold, Hwang Sung Kyung, the new master of the Seung Dojo, still dressed in more regal, ceremonial garb, which he didn't particularly like. The man had had these clothes carefully trimmed so that he could still fight well in them, even though their starchy build restricted his prowess. He bore a foreboding look on his paled face as he inched conservatively into the room towards Seung and his child. "Master Hwang, what an honor." Seung bowed, but Hwang promptly stood his master back up. "Save the pleasantries, master," he said somberly, "I hear Yunsung is gone." Seung turned, looking only barely downcast in his gait."Yes, he is indeed gone to seek his fortune." replied Seung, nodding apologetically to both Hwang and Mina.

"Well, he can no longer be our concern." Shot back Hwang, taking the other two by surprise. "Read this." He extracted a perfectly square piece of scented, soft parchment from a pocket in his outfit and held it out to Seung. It was in a smooth envelope with the imperial seal, broken in twain, upon it. Gently, Seung peeled open the envelope and pulled out the letter inside, unfurling and examining the finely inscribed cursive lettering. "_To the teachers and students of the Seung Dojo._" He read diligently, "_Word has come of the first attacks by the Japanese upon our borders. Ships have returned to our shores without their sister vessels, claiming they were attacked by the beginnings of a Japanese armada that has formed. The time has come to take a greater hand in fighting back. This same message has been sent to Korean dojos far and wide, requesting volunteers for the Imperial coastguard. You of the Seung Dojo boast many of this country's greatest warriors, and all people of this land would greatly appreciate the help of any._"

"It is signed with the imperial seal, master Seung." said Hwang, stating the obvious. Seung nodded. "We must see which students will go, then. I will address them today." Hwang cut him off, though, as he turned from his student, "No, that is not necessary. This dojo must remain thriving. Let the students stay, I will go." The two of them, Hwang and Seung, instinctively knew what was coming next.

"WHAT?" Mina was unable to contain herself after remaining silent for so long. "But, you are the new master of this dojo! You have to stay here and teach! You can't go off and join the coastguard when you are needed by your students." Hwang looked to her, trying to give comfort in his solemn eyes. "Master Seung, your father, has taught here longer than I. He can handle another year or so. If I go, the coastguard will need no more of Seung's students. I will suffice, and the war will surely be one within the season, Mina." Mina new he was right, at least about him going to war. She could only hope Hwang was right about this not-yet-started war being over in less than a full season. "By rights, I should go as well," interjected Seung, "but I shall not. Mina, fear not for Hwang, he will be alright, as usual." Hwang nodded, his air of confidence flooding back in with the season's warm tone. "I do not doubt it, master. I shall leave for the coast tomorrow." Suddenly, Seung took his hand as he turned. "And the support of the Sung Dojo shall go with you."

**…**

It was night, cold and disregarding of comfort, as Seung Mina observed. She walked, clutching her zanbatou weakly, through the Phoenix Court, eyeing its spiraled floor that laced outward as yin and yang beneath her booted feet. She sighed tiredly, almost limping along as she contemplated. The court was beautiful at night, as it was during the day, the moon's serene beams glistening down past the multicolored tapestries that dangled, blowing calmly in the night wind, from the dojo roof and squared columns that held up the overhanging roof out front. Looking around, her tranquil, sedated eyes half-closed; she'd been tearing the dojo apart all day, and yet she still didn't feel like she could go and rest herself.

_ 'What a horrible day,' _she thought, _'First Yun gets away with the sword, then Hwang needs to leave, what next?'_

After a number, possibly countless attempts to escape this dojo, Seung Mina had tried to settle down. Knowing that he could not keep her at home if she would hate it, Seung Mina's father had finally refused the marriage offer from that son of Kim, directed at Mina. This had eased Mina back into life in the dojo, where she studied and sometimes taught. She was one of the only people in the place who had fought in the outside world, actually risking life and limb in mortal combat, so she was somewhat looked up to by some of the younger students and respected by the older ones. Even though hwang himself would often relate tales of his exploits, the very young students preferred Mina's stories about her adventures. She relished telling people those tales, as humble as they were, and would tell them in excruciating detail, sometimes acting out the fights for teaching purposes. But now, everything was falling apart again. Even without marriage proposals and misogynists everywhere, there were new hardships. The war had begun, Mina's compatriot, Yunsung, who become more of a friend to her recently, had gone off on some foolhardy venture. Hwang, the person Mina felt most for other than her father, would head southeast on the morrow. Life wasn't as good as it seemed.

Quietly exiting the Phoenix Court, Seung Mina proceeded through the rest of the dojo's smaller rooms as night set in fully, twinkling stars peeking through a thin cloud layer and gently projecting their added light onto Korea. The girl within walked, ambling and slow, past the amply cushioned training rooms, rooms for exercise and for finding inner peace for meditation, though Seung Mina herself rarely practiced that method. She found herself winding through narrow, wood-decked halls until she reach the last room in the corridor that stemmed off from the court. It was the armory, a larger but less modest cube of walls that boasted a supply of bristling weapons, many untouched in ages. She looked around solemnly and pulled her zambatou up. There was no one here to watch or hear her, so she could vent her stress. She pulled up her zanbatou nimbly, clutching it firmly as it began to spin like a propeller in her hand. Calmly, finding her center, she began to move back and forth slowly, exercising her unaccustomed limbs as she began to speed through the room, stabbing and jabbing blindly at the air, her eyes firmly closed. She practiced lithely upon invisible, nonexistent opponents, gradually growing faster and faster until…

"Practicing, are we?" muttered a voice, calm and nonchalant, directly behind her. Seung Mina, nearly dropping her zanbatou but holding on barely, spun to face the apparent new presence in the room, shock and anger tainting her face with flushed red from the surprise and the strenuousness of the solitary training exercise. Blinking rapidly, she turned her full attention to the newcomer. She got a chance to overview him before she spoke, her eyes widening as she saw his garb. His outfit was so garish, so flashy and easy-to-spot in a crowd that it was practically appalling. A number of dramatic quirks in his form caught her eye. Firstly, his arm was thin, narrow, emaciated in its slenderness, too much less than his other, fuller arm. It bore what looked like sprung gears cranking away as the arm fell, curved over the man's waist, and its fingers laced around a blade hilt at his other side. Secondly, his outfit itself, which was not only outrageous, but far too reminiscent of the garb Mina had seen on tapestries which depicted the samurai warriors of Japan. He bore the same fluttering flag on his back and katana at his side. Lastly, as her eyes flitted swiftly above him, she saw the armory window hanging open, swinging back and forth as night wind blew in. The man…or thing was just about everything that Seung Mina didn't want to deal with right now. He was Japanese, armed, and not entirely human. Some sort of clockwork samurai.

"Wha- Who are you? What are you doing here?" she yelled at him, frustrated, gripping her zanbatou. "Ah, ah, so many questions, so few answers. You're quite the inquisitive one, child." murmured the man, in a particularly eccentric tone. He stepped forward on sandaled feet, removing his non-human arm from his dangling blade hilt. "I'm NOT a child!" she snapped back, fingers clenching further as she looked at the masked face. "Oh, I see. Forgive me, my name is Yoshimitsu." Yoshimitsu put his hand across his chest and executed a delicate bow, nodding in acknowledgement "Now, you'll kindly leave me to my work." With that, the man stepped forward and walked right past Mina, heading towards a weapons rack.

"Wait, you're a thief!" exclaimed Mina, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him to face her, "You've come to steal our weapons!" She couldn't see his expression beneath the face-shrouding mask, but the gutteral noise therien lead her to believe that he was eaither laughing or crying, probably the former. "Well, not exactly, miss," nodded Yoshimitsu astutely, "but you have the right idea." She looked at him, scrutinizing him deftly."AND you're Japanese!" she cried, her anger and annoyance growing at this man's subtle attitude.

"Well, you have me there, madam, but this is getting tedious. Please step aside." He shoved her hand off his shoulder and turned. "If you want anything from this dojo, you'll have to go through me." Seung Mina yelled back at him, her voice stabilizing as she spread her legs and assumed a well-balanced battle stance, laying her zanbatou on his shoulder again as he turned away. Probably grinning beneath his face mask, Yoshimitsu turned very slowly, his hand inching towards his katana, as he spoke in a solemn, less irksome tone of voice.

"Hmm…I didn't really want to make this difficult, but…"

His katana shot out in a magnificent flash, pushing Mina's zanbatou aside as he plunged toward her. She swung her zanbatou around nimbly, swirling almost in mid-air, and watched with an arrogant smile as Yoshimitsu's blade impacted the zanbatou rod and fell back. But, as she landed and recovered her composure, a flurry of attacks berated her mercilessly. She blocked each with the rod and propelled the blade downward. Instead of parrying, the waltzing figure danced aside, spun, and brought the flat of his blade into Mina's left arm. She staggered, and instantly received a second bash from the metal hilt on her shoulder, causing her left hand to loosen its grip on her weapon. But, even with one hand, she twirled the rod and blade right back against her foe, the blunt tip of the rod catching him in the chest. He too staggered, and Mina rushed forward, zanbatou raised. She leapt up and came down, but Yoshimitsu's katana was up and shooting forward. It collided with the rod and knocked it from Seung Mina's hands. The weapon shot behind her and rolled beneath the weapon racks as Mina hit the ground with a thud, rolling aside before she met the business end of a blade.

Hurriedly, she scrambled backward and turned, crawling towards the rack. Her arm darted under it, but she could reach her zanbatou. She had to roll aside again as Yoshimitsu's blade crashed through the rack, sending weapons across the room. Suddenly it hit Mina, _'This room is filled with weapons! I don't need my zanbatou! How could I have been so foolish?' _Taking barely an instant to scold herself for being absent-minded and grabbed one of the hwaorang swords, curved and gracefully fitting like Hwang's, and jumped up with it. Yoshimitsu, taken aback, didn't have time to react as she drove the blade into his right arm and out through the other side in a second. She panted, still grinning as she left the blade in. Suddenly, Yoshimitsu's head turned to her, tilting to one side curiously. In a moment, his hand was on hers and yanked both blade and hand away. The blade, no longer lodged in the man's wooden arm, clattered to the floor. The clockwork opponent pulled Mina's arm, spinning her around until her back was to him, and twisted the in front of Mina, holding it still. A second later, his katana was pressed against her jugular vein, the ice-cold metal almost searing her flesh there. Mina's free hand grabbed the offending arm, holding it at bay.

"Well, well, well. It seems we are at a bit of an impasse, hmm?" he muttered, chuckling silently.

"Bastard!" roared Mina, trying in vain to free herself. "Oh," murmured the thief, feigning sadness, "I'm hurt. Now that was uncalled for, miss…miss…I don't believe I got your name." he laughed conservatively as Seung Mina aimed her foot delicately while the thief didn't notice. "It's Seung Mina, and it'll be the last thing you ever hear!"

Seung Mina's foot, navigating backward, found its way into Yoshimitsu's stomach. The thief released and stumbled, but both warriors were interrupted when the armory door swung open and students poured in, engulfing the room in chaos. Mina's eyes went to them as they streamed in around her, but when she turned back to Yoshimitsu, he was gone…and the open window was neatly closed.

"Mina, what happened?" cried one student named Jung, assuming a stance and scanning the room carefully. "We heard fighting!" yelled another, namely Kwan, grabbing the dropped hwaorang sword from the tiled floor. "There was a thief," muttered Mina, looking away from the students, "I couldn't tell what he wanted to steal."

"So, you defeated him?" Kwan posed the question reluctantly. "Well, yes and no." replied Mina, turning now to face them. She didn't really know whether she'd won or lost. She seemed to have the advantage, but Yoshimitsu had left because of the students, not because of her. He might've won if the fight had gone on longer. "He took nothing, then?" inquired Jung as the students began to gather the fallen weapons. "No…I don't think he found what he was looking for." Mina looked back at the window, scanning it for some sign of the thief's return. Suddenly, her eyes plated and fixed upon a small oozing puddle on the floor. It was black, not blood…oil, and there was a trail of it leading to the window.


	8. Bad Luck

Disclaimer: I don't own SC2. REALLY, I'm REALLY sure of this!

YF: In my last chap. I started rambling randomly about the internet. Unfortunately, I left out the key sentence which makes the tirade make sense. The note addressed to you should've began with "Actually, one of the prime reasons for a sudden halt in all my fics was a loss of the internet...and interest, later on." Somehow, that single sentence was deleted, but without it, the next several sentances don't make sense. I was just too lazy to replace a whole chapter because I left out a sentence in the Author's Note. Sorrinesses.

Ok, this chapter has what I like to call the OneRing principal goin' on. If you've ever seen or read Lord of the Rings, you'll know what I'm talking about (no, this is not a LotR crossover!). I'm sort of establishing that the shards of Soul Edge are tempting to those who want them, very openly so...Well, you'll see. Tell me if it doesn't work, but it's not a major thing anyway, just a plot driver...Damn, too much notage, not enough storyage.

**Chapter VII – Bad Luck**

Light, very unwelcome light, shined through weakened glass panes in the Frenchman's room, bathing him and his cramped little bed in a searing fountain of light beams that tore his heavy eyelids open forcefully. He pulled those eyelids wide, his limpid orbs of eyes staring out and closing instantly as the blinding sunlight overflowed into his eyes and head. Shoving a wet palm, soaked with nightmare-induced sweat, in front of his eyes which closed tight, he kicked the thick, scratchy cotton blankets off of him and clamored madly out of the bed. He couldn't remember the dream which had made his night so long and frustrating, but he was sure it had been very chaotic for him to feel so tired out.__

For Raphael de Sorel, the many days and sleepless nights he spent upon the Marie Rose were tireless, boring, and uneventful. But today would hopefully be different. As he glanced, still blinking heaps of baggy sand from the sides of his eyes, at the shredded parchment that hung from his wall. He'd requested to have the only calendar on the vessel placed in his room, since no one else really needed it for anything. He looked at it, fixing his gaze as best he could, and swabbed his sweaty brow with an ungloved palm as he noticed the date and let a minor grin pass over him. It was the 27th of November, Raphael's birthday. What could be called a very vague smile creased across his face as he pulled on some dirt clothes, trying in vain to smooth ruffled feathers, and left the small cabin with a slight spring evident in his step.

The Marie Rose was somewhere, which was what Raphael new best. More popular, and probably accurate, opinion had it that the passenger vessel was in the South China Sea or, more specifically, a large bay stretching into the colonized port city of Manilla, in the Phillipines. There was a necessary stop for supplies in the city, and possible new borders on the vessel, though Raphael couldn't imagine that anyone who was primitive enough to live in the Phillipines would ever care to leave, though that was just his opinion. Luckily, it might give Raphael a chance to interact verbally with someone other than Rush, Rock, or the possibly mute bartender who never spoke to him.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Rock's company. Ever since the bout however many weeks ago, they had developed some small sense of companionship, since they were the only two real warriors on the boat. They had talked many an hour for many a day about their pasts. Raphael was, surprisingly, intrigued by Rock's story. He had learned the man's real name, Nathaniel William Adams, and heard a story which seemed fictional about pirates, Indians, and other very strange things. It sounded like a more graduated children's story, and yet Rock told in perfect detail. Raphael knew Rock was smarter than he looked, but no man as primitive as he could possibly fabricate such an in depth tale no matter how many hours spent stewing over it. Raphael had related to Rock his own story, about his family and Amy, but had said nothing to him of Soul Edge (even though, unbeknownst to him, Rock had concealed his knowledge of the sword and shard as well).

So, now they were all in Manilla, ready to sail as soon as the supplies had been gathered. Manilla, like most of the civilized Phillipines, was a Spanish colony at this point, which at first discouraged Rush from pointing his ship there, but it was not particularly nationalist. Raphael and Rock had protested Rush not simply letting them off in India, which was on the way to the Phillipines, but Rush had insisted for whatever reason, despite the minor conflict. Now that they were here, neither the Frenchman or the white giant had bothered complaining.

Avoiding the onboard pub carefully, knowing that Rock did not like to be disturbed in the mornings, Raphael headed up onto the crowded main deck as the ship's lurching speed decreased and the fierce bobbing of the vessel lessened. The new sunlight, already present in Raphael's throbbing head, shone down majestically on the fluttering sails of the Marie Rose, which danced through the air as clouded shadows played out like brightened puppet shows upon them. Sucking in a breath of crisp, warm air, Raphael headed to the ship's side and leaned on it, dangling his arms over the railing.

The ship had pulled into the harbor of Manilla. It was a relatively bustling seaport, not as overborne with huddled masses as Le Havre, but still very busy. Some of the rustic seafaring men of the Marie Rose were securing mooring ropes to the flanking wharf as some folk on the extended bridge of rotting wooden planks inspected the vessel and either dismissed it disdainfully or continued to eye it carefully.

"We're takin' on a new passenger, ye know." Raphael recognized the voice of Captain Rush and didn't bother turning. He murmured silently to himself and spoke aloud. "Just one? I thought there'd be more. Who's the lucky fellow, anyway?" he laughed, last night's extra ale still supplying him with excess giddiness. "'Tis a girl, mister Sorel." Growled Rush, his face as rock solid as stone. "Right there." He raised a spatula-shaped index finger and jerked it below, over the vessel's side, and towards one of the figures standing alone on the mooring wharf. It was a girl his finger fell upon, and a small one at that. She was no older than twenty, surely, but no younger than fourteen. Raphael did not bother estimating her age as he looked down at the child. Her skin was of lighter and smoother hue than the other rough men who clamored about foolishly in the harbor. She looked very pensive, looking out at Manilla bay as she began to walk slowly toward the Marie Rose's gangplank. Raphael examined her keenly from afar.

"Bad luck, mister Sorel." Commented Rush, shaking his head grimly. "What's bad luck, Rush?" inquired Raphael, chuckling silently as he leaned back, holding onto the railing and feeling the calm winds smooth the stressed creases and wrinkles that were starting to pockmark his otherwise porcelain aristocratic complexion. "Woman onboard," groaned Rush, "'specially a kid girl. 'Tis bad luck to let any female on a ship, ye know."

"No, I don't think I have heard that superstition." bantered back Raphael, skepticism apparent in his tone. "T'ain't no superstition, mister Sorel. Whenever there's a lady onboard, somethin' bad's bound ta happen." As Rush said this, despite Rush's dead seriousness, Raphael laughed more audibly and leaned forward, a critical grin upon his expression. "You'll pardon me if I don't take that very seriously." Rush looked at him, one eye seeming strangely larger than the other, swollen with a mild intimidation. "Ye oughtta, mister Sorel, or else." Warned Rush, wagging a flabby finger at the Frenchman. "Or else what, dare I ask, seven years bad luck?" The Frenchman contained an impolite guffaw. "I dunno, t'was just sayin'." Said Rush, retreating somewhat. "Well, I'm going to get the girl a drink, It'll be nice to have some civilized company aboard this ship." He huffed a little, assuming his usual air which allowed Rush the easiness to chuckle himself. Rearing himself up and puffing out his regal chest, Raphael made his way to the gangplank and swaggered down, dragging himself like a king and his train as he met the young girl halfway, catching her mildly off guard.

"Hello, mademoiselle," he began pleasantly, "it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Raphael de Sorel." She nodded back at him, still walking. "I'm Talim." the girl responded meekly, trying in vain to move past him. She smiled a soothing, yet impatient smile as moved aside, still blocking her path for the most part. "Good day, miss Talim. Would you perhaps like a drink, some food?" This managed to elicit yet another nod. "I'd like a drink," murmured the Filipino teenager "thanks."

"Here, come with me. I'll introduce you to my friend."

Almost dragging her along, Raphael pulled Talim onboard. Most of the sailors around just gave her quirky looks, but Rush managed to tip his hat, even though he still had that cautious scowl on his grizzled face. Raphael ignored them, unintentionally forcing the newcomer to do the same. He managed to get himself and the young one, who was much more energetic in the morning than he, down into the small, bobbing ship's pub as the Marie Rose began to lurch along, with no other passengers boarding. Supplies had been brought up from some neutral storehouses in Manilla during the calm, windy previous night so nothing was left for the vessel or its crew in the Phillipines. As the two, walking down that unstable flight of steps to the decks below, felt the ship beginning to move sluggishly, Talim looked a little agitated, though she expertly masked the emotion and followed behind the overly amiable Frenchman until they were in the practically empty ship's barroom.

**…**

They headed down, out of the brisker atmosphere of an oddly dark morning sky, and into the room. Though unwilling, Raphael guided Talim to one of the undersized stools and sat her down, seating himself beside Rock, who seemed lost in his morning grog tankard. He looked asleep, for the most part, so Raphael easily dismissed his drowsy state and turned back to Talim, feeling the ship roll along beneath him as the Marie Rose cleared Manilla Bay and pulled out into the vast, salty waters of the South China Sea, swelling and swirling around them both.

"So, Miss Talim, what brings you aboard this 'fair ship?'" laughed the Frenchman at last, ordering a more delicate cup of ale from the grizzled bartender who he still thought to be mute, though he'd heard him talk on occasion. Talim looked back at him, still with that delightful naivety in her clear eyes. "I had to get abroad…I'm looking for something, you see…many somethings."

"Yes, I see." Raphael nodded in understanding, "I'm looking for something too. I assume all people are looking for something." Talim's gaze wast oddly cast down as he looked back at her. "I'm sure," she replied softly, "But what I'm looking for is very different than what everyone else is looking for." Raphael smiled, some threadbare, obscure warmth reflected on his laid back features, "Don't worry about that, Talim. No matter what you're looking for, I guarantee that there are more people on this globe who seek the same. In fact, I would bet that you shall meet one of them on your journey, if not more. It is the way of things, I think. There is always at least one other, so you can be an individual in your own right, but you'll never be alone in your quest. It's a comforting thought for people like you and me. We're both seeking something very special."

"I don't enjoy thinking about what I'm searching for…I'm not looking for it because I want it…I'm looking for it because I hate it." Raphael shot her a strange look, but shrugged it off and turned back to his pulsating, bubbling drink. "No matter what it is, there is someone else. I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for, I do." Talim shook her head, looking a little melancholy. "I had to leave my home to find it…I don't know if it'll be worth it." Raphael turned to her, his curiosity piqued. "You didn't run away, did you?" Talim shook her head again. "No, I didn't…It was just the first time I ever left…Mister Sorel, I don't think I like the rest of the world. Everywhere I look, people who look like they'd rather kill me where I stand than have a pleasant conversation, people who stare at me for no reason I know, they're everywhere in Manilla, everywhere on the road I took."

"It isn't that bad, once you get to know it." comforted the Frenchman. Trying to get off a subject that was growing more morose by the second, he turned to Rock, who was still buried face first in his murky grog. "It's time you met my friend." muttered Raphael as he raised his hand. Reluctantly, flinching a little as his index finger moved, Raphael jabbed Rock sharply in the folded arm, jogging him rudely from his half slumber. "Wha…whad I miss?" he murmured, his jaw hanging limp as he began pulling himself up. "We have a new arrival, Rock, a fine young lady, miss Talim here." He indicated the Filipino. Talim blushed politely at Raphael's statement, but not too much. She was obviously taken aback by her newer, rougher, less peaceful surroundings. "Why…ummm…Hello, Talim." Rock managed to mutter glumly, pulling himself up, "Wanna drink?"

"Yes, yes please." She replied, still meekly. Raphael sat back as he listened to her voice, feeling an odd sensation welling up and milling about in his mind. Though she was older, she had the same child-like innocence of Amy, the same calming air and gentle disposition."Sure," said Rock, smiling beneath his fuzzy beard. He reached into the pocket of his pelted, primitive garb and dig around. Soon, a foul look crossed his face as he removed empty hands and let them fall in a heap on the bar, "Looks like I'm all out."

"Out of what?" interjected Raphael, looking quizzical but not entirely paying attention. "Money." Responded Rock dully, "You got any, Talim?" Talim paused for a second, drawing the attention of both men, and shook her head sadly, "Nothing I could spend, mister…" Rock cut her off with the answer. "His name's Rock." he said, turning fully to Talim, "Are you sure you have nothing on you? You won't get far on land without any." Talim contemplated for a moment, looking from Frenchman to giant, and spoke.

"Well…I do have this…"

Apparently, no one had noticed the eerie calm that had descended, the sudden lull in the sea breezes noise and the harbor flocking birds. No chirps rent the air, now caws and howls, no wind whistling and fluttering sails, all was silent. Talim reached with ominous slowness to the small pouch at her side, pulled it cautiously up, and dumped its contents onto the table; a small metallic shard, glowing a blazing scarlet aura. "By the spirits," whispered Rock, for once his voice silent, "a shard…You have shard of the sword!" his eyes were widening still as he spoke. "What, what sword?!" scowled Raphael at Rock, though his eyes were transfixed on the fragment as well. Suddenly, Rock pushed Raphael roughly aside as he moved towards the bar and piece of stony material, his voice swelling dramatically as he spoke, "That is a fragment of the blade of darkness! That…that little rock…is a piece of Soul Edge!"

Just as suddenly, the silence was broken. The word had triggered something, primarily in the Frenchman. Raphael de Sorel, seeing the first piece of his prize dove forward at the bar, shoving Talim off the stool she sat on, and groping for the glowing fragment. Before he had it, though his scratching fingers were close, he felt Rock's firm hand on his shoulder holding him back as he tried to leap. His hand flitted to Flambert. _'It must be mine!' _"Get off me, mongrel!" he roared, his eyes filled with a strange and unusual fire, "I NEED that shard!"

"Weak-minded fool, the shard has to be destroyed, it's evil!" roared Rock back. Oddly, both Rock and Raphael seemed transformed in an instant, now raging, loud, and barbarous as they each clamored forward, bashing at the bar table and grabbing at the glowing fragment. "I need it for Amy, I have to have all the pieces, I have to!" Rock glowered back at him. "You mean that damned brat you were wailing about?" he cackled uncharacteristically, yanking Raphael back, "She doesn't need it!" The two of them continued their grappling, but were swifly interrupted. "Get off! It's mine anyway!" Talim's voice, so formally calm before, yelled loudly as she jumped up into the fray.

As they began their unwonted brawl, another voice joined their grunting and groaning trio. "What in blue blazes is goin' on here?!" Rush managed to thunder, storming across the room with a pair of thirsty crewmembers. Rush grabbed Rock, along with another sailor, since he was obviously the strongest, and hauled him off the bar and onto the floor, creating an even greater ruckus. Now, with no Rock to hinder him, Raphael neared the shard, but the combined force of Talim and the other seafarer kept him away as Rush squirmed out from beneath Rock and leapt up, grabbing the metal. "Now, what's all this bloody commotion about?" he declared, eyeing Rock and Raphael as they struggled to reach the fragment. "He tried to steal my fragment!" boomed Raphael, his fire-laced voice echoing in the pub. "It's MY fragment!" Talim protested loudly,

"Why in hell do you all care so much…about…this…little thing." Rush's voice suddenly deflated, his volume shrinking and the sinister silence returning as his glassy eyes looked down at the fervently glowing item hovering just above his palm…"My god…it's beautiful." He stammered. In a second, his palm had closed, the glow now enveloping his hand, and he walked forward past Raphael, Rock, and Talim. "Cap'n, cap'n, wha' is it?" queried one of the confused seafarers as Rush, eyes looking gleefully at his hand, marched forward.

The whole room fell into shock as Rush's hand, unhesitating, went to his side, whipped out the rusty cutlass that hung at his hip, and didn't even look up as he slashed his mate, drawing a deep gash through his arm and chest which sent a vomiting burst of scarlet into the air. Talim winced, flinching as the sprits of life fluid landed with a fluid bounce on the floorboards. Still emotionless, Rush walked by the corpse, still wrenching back and forth. Another seafarer jumped in his way, trying vaguely to fathom what his captain had done, but found the rusty and now blood dripping blade stabbed mercilessly through his throat. He slumped backward against the wall, leaving a drying trail behind him on the wood as he slid down to the floor. Grinning evilly, Rush ran past him too and up the stairs, heading out into the darker sky on the main deck. The remaining sailors, Raphael, Talim, and Rock hurriedly got up and sprinted after him. Raphael caught up first, heading Rush off beneath the mizenmast. "GIVE ME BACK MY SHARD!" Raphael nearly shrieked, unsheathing Flambert with a less delicate grace as the metallic scream of the sword ripped through the calm breeze. Still, eyes were too fixed on what was on deck to notice the billowing clouds in the sky.

"It's mine now!" Shot back Rush, pulling up his cutlass. His fist was so tightly clenched around the shard that some thin tendrils of blood were oozing from between his firmly closed fingers. The cutlass shot up and came down, but Rush was a mediocre fighter compared to Raphael. He was disarmed after a vigorous flurry of slashes from the Frenchman. Raphael, his face twisted into an animal snarl, was about to lunge, when Rock's bulky fist slammed down and wrapped around his right shoulder again, preventing him. "Raphael, you're acting like a madman!" bellowed Rock, trying to shake off his own primal fury.

"You're the mad one, Rock, not I!" Raphael's blade swerved, slicing a very shallow gash on Rock's knuckle. The giant, stamping like a furious bull, his ax clutched in hand, punched the bloodied fist into Raphael's face. The Frenchman shot back, blood pouring from his nose, and slid on the deck until he halted in a agonized heap at the other end. Rock stamped towards Rush, closing his huge hand around the captain's tiny one. "GIVE ME THAT SHARD!" The barbaric white giant yelled right into Rush's weak ear. "N-no…it's m-mine, my shard!" stuttered Rush reluctantly.

"Actually, it's mine." Rush and Rock looked down, nearly spooked, as Talim yanked the fragment from Rush's fidgeting palm and rushed off. Rush, with a swift kick to Rock's chest, fell to the deck and scurried behind Talim, grabbing her from behind. Growling maniacally, he spun her around. His face was lucid, but a deathly flame burned with severe intensity behind his paling eyes. The blade in his hand reared back again and…

Talim fell back, something wet speckling her face. She knew what it was, but she didn't want to know. Her eyes reluctantly opened, to see Flambert, the reddened rapier of Raphael de Sorel, driven through the upper chest of a twitching, wide-eyed Rush. Panting heavily, and bleeding from nose and mouth, Raphael pulled up his foot and kicked Rush's quivering body off his sword, taking a deep breath. "You…you killed him…you killed him!" cried Talim, backing up on the deck as Raphael looked at his sword, astonished. "I had to…He was going to kill you, he was going to kill you and take the shard, he was-" It was just then when one of the most inconvenient things that ever happened to the Marie Rose happened. Raphael's very quiet voice and the calm as the crew looked, nearly comatose, at their dead captain, was interrupted by a small voice from the crow's nest above.

"Ship off the port bow!" it cried weakly, "Pirates!"

_'Shit' Raphael's barely audible mind swore, 'Perhaps Rush was right about the bad luck.'_


	9. Juxtaposition

Author's Note: Hey all. Just wanted to say, I think this chapter moves a bit too quickly. I couldn't think of some stuff, but it works in the end. As Disclaimer: I don't own SC2. Really. Do you think I do? You're damn crazy, bud! Lastly, I'm afraid there will be no more daily updates. There will be updates, at least on a week, but not one a day, or every two days. Chapters are getting much longer and need more time to write...

Avion and YF: Glad you liked. YF, you're on the right track. Not givin' anything away. Unfortunately, I won't be able to come back to that storyline for a few chapters, more important stuff. Avion, as a warning, Talim does get a bit...ummm..roughed up, shall we say, in later chapters. Necessary for some philosophizing (every epic needs more than action, so I fit it in where I can). She'll be fine...in fact, better than, but wait for it.

**Chapter VIII – Juxtaposition**

_Even here, in and on another, darker plane, Yunsung knew what time and place he lurked in. It had been two days since the fateful incident with the black-clad warrior, and there was not a fleeting second that the redheaded student did not think of the battle…that battle with the ninja, not long ago, but now..._

_He was running, running from something. He didn't even know what he was running from, or if it was he that was running. All he knew was that Hong Yunsung, whether he was Hong Yunsung or watching Hong Yunsung, was running through a veritable ocean of darkness, murky like liquid it swirled around the figure as he sprinted along an invisible path deeper into the pitch shadows. Even though the eyes of this state could see the figure running, those eyes also belonged to the figure running. The whole thing was like an endless succession of mirrors, reflecting itself and seeing itself. It was an endless wall of mirrors, at first only metaphorically, but those walls, mirroring corridors, soon came into open, literal view on every side of Yunsung. __And ever he ran, now running through a thicker, stickier material. Suddenly the sky of the dreamy plane was tinted deeper, fouler red that tainted Yunsung's already severely blurred vision. His dreaming omnipresence and lower manifestation searched about madly, finding nothing. Until a faint glow began to unfurl just before him, a smoky haze beginning to spurt from the focal point of the gules-singed darkness._

_ It was that ninja, wreathed in the smoggy white smoke of the bomb he'd heaved, standing in a hovering cloud before him, wading ever closer to the Korean. Though this single, lucid figurine was by no means intimidating, Yunsung found himself gripped with pangs of stinging fear. He felt both himself and the statuary figure of him which he saw pulling back, stumbling and stammering, shivering and trembling with a deep and disconcerting inner sensation. He knew what was coming, but his eyes could not close as it came. The ninja, rearing back upon his swirling ivory nimbus, spewed forth a malodorous, foul spray of crimson that seemed to well up on the lens of Yunsung's dream. As the ghastly sound of the action shrieked within, it was all over…_

Hong's eyes snapped open; his hand flitted to his sword. His fingers tightened, and then fell limp from his hip. The Korean panted heavily as he pulled himself into a sitting position, sweating bullets. He wiped his soaked brow hastily and arched forward, letting a solitary bead of sweat caress the bridge of his nose and slide off, impacting the rich, grassy soil beneath him. Choking on nothing, Yunsung nodded his head and took a deep breath, summoning his composure as he spoke slowly, still breathing hard, "It was all…a dream."

"Indeed it was, but this isn't."

Even though reality had already set in, the icy feel on Yunsung's throat shattered the dream's lingering effect. He would've jumped, but thought better of it, considering the fact that the blade pressed against his neck would've neatly popped his head off. "Who are you?" he said, as cocky as ever, hiding the fear in his voice. "You were attacked, yes?" said the supple tone, apparently female. "Why should I tell you?" Yunsung actually grinned, but the blade yanking barely backwards wiped the smile from his face. "Answer the question, boy. You were attacked. He was clad in black, with his face covered?"

"Yes, that's right." responded Yunsung, shifting in his sitting position. "And he had a strange weapon, a scythe and chain?" Yunsung nodded. "Along with a number of other things, yes." he replied, now trying to ease back. Suddenly, very suddenly, the cold sensation in his neck stopped abruptly, almost causing him to jump. At first he considered the thought that his assailant might have pulled the blade and popped his head off, and he was having some sort of post-mortem contemplation, but that thought was proved wrong as his hand flew to his warmed throat and felt it, spying only a minor cut made by the precisely tipped weapon. He turned around swiftly, expecting not to see anything, but he did see his assailant, kneeling behind him and looking up. She was female indeed, with long, sleek black hair and a mask covering her mouth and nose. She wore tight-fitting crimson which actually managed to blend with the blued hue of night. The female slid her ninjatou into a sheath on her back and raised a hand contemplatively to her chin, leaning forward on a bent knee. She murmured inaudibly to herself as Yunsung spun angrily.

"YOU ALMOST KILLED ME!" he roared at the woman, at point-blank range. "Shut up, I'm thinking." snapped the ninja, not even deigning to look at the flame-haired Korean. "WHY THE HELL DID YOU-" He was swiftly interrupted before the next stream of Korean expletives could spurt out. "I said, QUIET!" the ninja cut him off. A swift, well-aimed punch from the female did more than silence Yunsung, it knocked him unconscious.

**…**

_Hong reverted back to reality as the hustle and bustle of people caught attention to his ears. The road was crowded with business vendors, trying to sell their catch of the day to local buyers. Yunsung made his way through the crowds, passing stern voices of shouting Korean women complaining about the prices. As he walked closer to the pier, a rush of memories whizzed to his mind. The youth was no stranger to this seaport. This was __Pusan__, where he was headed. When he was younger, he'd often come down here with his fellow comrades to fish for the day and just have some pure, old-fashioned fun. At least half of the visits were just with him and Hwang alone.   
__"Just watch, I'm going to catch the biggest fish ever!" Hwang teased over to his 'little brother.' "No!" argued Yunsung, "I am. I'm going to catch a huge sea bass this big!" He outstretched his arms as far as he could. With fishing rods in their hands, they walked to their favorite fishing spot along the pier. Through laughing and some jokes, the duo saw several people being pushed aside. "Stop thief!" Hwang looked to see a scrubby man carrying a medium-sized pouch pushing people, young and elderly alike, out of his path. Hwang could also see two sailors chasing after him. "Someone please stop him!" yelled one of the sailors. "What's happening Hwang?" the boy asked. "Don't move," Hwang instructed. He gave the curious Yunsung his fishing pole as he studied the movements of the thief heading straight for him. Sidestepping to the side just a bit, he quickly spun around and extended his leg. Hwang's heel smacked directly onto the thief's jaw, knocking him down on the floor. Yunsung shouted incoherently in amazement. Hwang bent down to grab the pouch as the two sailors finally caught up. "Here you go," Hwang stated, tossing the pouch to one of the sailors. "Thanks kid, we appreciate it." They forced the thief back onto his feet and dragged him away. _

_ Yunsung remembered it as if it was yesterday. He couldn't have been older than six at the time, the youngest student at the dojo. Hwang was already twenty. It was from that day that he admired Hwang and wanted to be just like him. Despite the fact that he wanted to prove that he was better than him now, he admitted that those were good times._

For the second time that day, Yunsung awoke. His eyelids were heavier this time, and one of them felt swollen was caked with a blue tinge from the punch dealt him. Again, he was about to shoot upward, but decided it would be easier to just lie where he was. His hand managed to arch its way to his side and groped for the hilt of his sword, but it curled involuntarily around nothing. He managed to push himself up slightly, surprised to find nothing against his jugular vein this time. His blurred vision managed to notice the same female leaning against a ginko tree nearby.

"W-why didn't you kill me?" he said weakly, rubbing his bruised face. "You're more important alive. I didn't expect that little punch to knock you out." The Korean growled angrily in his throat, which built up until he could hold onto it no longer. "IT WASN'T A LITTLE PUNCH!" roared Yunsung, surging upward. "Don't make me punch you again." threatened the ninja, barely glancing at the Korean. Trying to look unafraid, but still mildly intimidated by the figure, Yunsung sagged down again onto his rear, crossing his arms impatiently. "Alright, kid, I've got some questions for you." She waited for response and watched Yunsung nod reluctantly, "First question: were there any strange markings upon your attacker, odd garb, tattoos, scars, something like that?"

"Not a thing, I guess. He was just wearing black, that's all." Yunsung tried to recall, but he had not taken the initiative to search the body. Admittedly, he was a little spooked by the idea of searching a corpse. "I see," pondered the female, "And he said to you?" Yunsung knew the answer, and was becoming more impatient with his inquisitor. "Nothing." the redhead snapped more bluntly, "Who the hell are you anyway?"

"I'm the one asking the questions, kid." Shot the ninja, "Which reminds me, what is your name?" At this, Yunsung's brow plunged. "Why should I tell you if you didn't tell me?" grumbled the other half of the growing banter. "Because I have a sword and you don't. How 'bout that for incentive?" To illustrate her point, the ninja extracted one of the lithe, sleek blades from a sheath at her hip and aimed it carefully at the Korean, who scooted back instinctively. "Fine, fine. I'm Hong Yunsung, if you wanna know." The ninja seemed to consider for a moment, lowering her ninjatou, and moved back again, sitting down neatly in the rough, solid dust of the road, rimmed by more gingko trees and some small patches of ginseng herbs. "If you care that much, my name is Taki. I usually don't divulge that…except to people I'm going to kill, but you're a special case." Though Yunsung was unsettled by that last comment, he didn't show it in the least. "Next question: you are from the dojo of Seung Han Myong, yes?"

"How did you know that?" queried Yunsung, answering the question technically. "That's not your concern. Next question: was your attacker skilled with the weapon he held." Yunsung reflected for a moment. He remembered vaguely how he'd observed the ninja trying to evade his own mad swings, nodded grimly, and then shook his head at Taki, "No, no, he was not skilled…not _very _skilled, anyway." Taki's gaze suddenly drifted away, "Ah, it was not Satoshi then." she mused, somewhat bitterly, still looking away. "Who's Satoshi?" snapped Yunsung, still irritable. "Once again, you don't need to know, kid." Shot back the ninja. "Wait a second, how do you know I was attacked?" the skeptical redhead persisted with his questions. "I followed you, I've been following you." Taki sighed, irked by the Korean's inquisitive nature at this point. "If you were following me, why didn't you just check the body I left?"

"It wasn't there when I reached the site where you fought." She yelled back loudly, silencing his questions, "There were two sets of footprints, evidence of a battle, broken branches, but no body. Your footprints went on; the other person's didn't, but no body." Yunsung looked puzzled, for obvious reasons. "But, I left the body there and-"

"Shhhh" Taki shushed Yunsung quickly, cutting him off in mid-word, "…did you hear that?" she looked off, away from Yunsung. "No, what? Hear what?" managed Yunsung, quieting down obediently.

Suddenly, as the two looked out at the dark trees, a spinning glint of light whizzed past them. Taki pushed Yunsung to the ground and he saw the recognizable ninja throwing star fly too close to his quivering nose and thud into the thick segments of a gingko trunk nearby. Yunsung leapt up yet again, bursting up from the earth and landing, he saw his blade, White Storm, stuck in the grassy dirt not far off and lunged. Taki whipped out her ninjatou expertly and backpedaled with feline agility as a second shuriken flew past her, cutting the shoulder cloth of her tight outfit.

More shuriken, their gleaming tips bearing a grim glint, flew again, striking the dusty road in front of Taki as she leapt over their path. Somersaulting lithely forward and sprinting towards the source of the throwing stars, her blades out and flying. She shredded the leafy branch, low in the hanging, of one of the hapless ginkos, and heard a satisfying yelp as something skittered from her target point. She held up MekkiMaru instinctively, the slightly fluorescent blade up just in time to receive the last shuriken as the offending something burst from the trees. Taki retreated as the black-clad figure alighted, obviously a ninja as well, just as wreathed in deceiving sable as the former. From his beltline he yanked a ninjatou for himself, longer than Taki's, and his other hand wheeled around and pulled a narrow dagger, a tanto blade tucked into his thick but non-cumbersome suit.

Yunsung, meanwhile, had his own curved and slender blade clutched in both blades as he dove forward madly, passing Taki. After the incident with the other ninja, Yunsung felt a sort of appalling verve, like he wanted to repeat the process. He didn't even think as he plowed onward…right into a waiting, clenched fist outstretched by the assailant. He buckled backward, but managed to flip backward awkwardly on the ground as the longer ninja sword stabbed ruthlessly into the earth. The ninja looked sideways too late, watching Taki fly into action. She leapt up, both feet flying. One foot caught the blade that was stabbed into the ground, sending it flying into the thick mud. The other, more precisely aimed, snapped the ninja's head back and sent him to a position sprawled in one of the watery millet patches.

Hong Yunsung followed first, lifting his weakened arm and pouncing. The ninja evaded, squirming sideways in the mire as Yunsung splashed down. He felt a breezy drizzle on his back, but ignored the minute sprinkle of rain as he turned through the muck, his face now coated with a combination of it and some plastered rice, to see his enemy. Spinning on his arm, the ninja swung through the slippery patch until his sandaled foot found Yunsung's chest. The Korean panted, trying to catch his breath as it left him, and crumbled into the mud as Taki leapt over him, practically balancing above the thick material as she began to hammer the ground with slices from her ninjatou in vain, the ninja dodged each stab and hack nimbly.

Finally, the ninja foe rolled from his restricting spot in the mud, alighting beneath a weak sheet of rain on more solid earth. He whipped something from his outfit, a small, colorless sphere soared past Taki, who dove over it. It plunked down in the mud beside Yunsung as he scrambled to his feet. Before he could go forward, he found himself coughing as smoggy whiteness, pouring from the mud-caked sphere, flooded his lungs and eyes. He batted as it as he would at an invisible foe and wormed his way to Taki and the ninja who had resumed combat.

After clashing mightily while Yunsung dove, the ninja reared back, pushing off wit his feet, and flipped backward, sending up a spurt of clouded dust just as Yunsung, ready again to do what he considered his job, charged up and pushed Taki aside, running at the ninja and roaring at the top of his smoke-filled lungs. He stopped in his tracks, frozen in icy shock when the ninja landed and pulled an arm around, sending a very small, barely visible projectile whizzing toward him. It seemed to rip the air in front of him as it closed the distance until…

Yunsung's eyes were closed, expecting the object to catch him full in the face, but there was no pain, no feeling at all as he heard the slick sound of the object striking flesh. Opening his eyes in coupled confusion and horror, Yunsung saw why he had not been hit.

Standing in front of him, a slender needle poking out of her throat, was Taki, staggering and wobbling weakly. With a last surge of energy, before Yunsung could stop her, she charged at the bewildered ninja, who was obviously unprepared for this. With one swift strike, his bleeding lump of an arm lay wrenching in the mud, with a second came his other arm. The 'disarmed' attacker fell to his knees, bleeding from both shoulders, and looked up just in time to see both of Taki's ninjatou stab through his black mask and face, coming out the other side.

As the ninja slumped over, limp like a puppet, Taki stepped back to admire her handiwork. Then, smiling eerily, she too fell back, crumbling into the mud. Yunsung, completely addled by now, ran towards the motionless form of Taki. He knelt quickly beside her, inspecting the wound. Carefully, he plucked the needle from her neck, it had pierced nothing vital, but as he observed the acute tip, he saw the slight yellowish aura on it. _'Poison!' _He pulled her up as best he could and lifted her hanging wrist. Surprisingly, there was a feint pulse resounding there. The redhead thought carefully as he lowered Taki to the dirt. _'I could…take her with me…to __Pusan__.' _His more logical, and colder side warned him against it. _'You hardly know her, Yun, why do you care?'_

_ 'She saved my life, for whatever reason, and I want to find out why. If she's still alive, I can.' _His calculating mentality did not respond, and Yunsung assumed the argument was easily won until, _'She probably wants you dead.'_

_ 'Why would she have saved me then?' _retorted Yun, actually saying this out loud as well as thinking it. Not waiting for an answer he sheathed his blade and Taki's ninjatou, picked up her slowly colder becoming form, and hefted it into his arms. _'I need answers, and she can give them.'_


	10. Of Past and Present

Author's Note: Hey, hey, hey. Me again. Alright, I already went over my 'no more daily update' policy, but I wanted to remind everyone that the updates will still be somewhat frequent, unless I'm specific about it. Also, if there was a chapter anyone missed (some came two at a time) I recommend that someone go back and read, cuz this is about to get 'uber' confusing. I cannot stress this enough. Since my storyline is about to split three to four ways, it'll be crucial for you readers to know where I'm coming from. Thanks for reviewing all. Now, my next chappie is nearly ready, but, as much as I hate to leave y'all hanging like this, I'm going to let this fanfic sit for a bit, gathering reviews and reviewers, and just readers. I'm goin' for the big one here. First plot twist comin' up.

Disclaimer: I don't own SC2...Or do I?...No, I don't...Or do I?...No.

**Chapter IX – Of Past and Present**

It had already been a bad day for Voldo, as he remembered it. Things in life weren't even trying to accommodate him. The ship ride to Venice had been murderous, and he'd barely resisted the urge to drive his katars right through some of the slack-jawed folk who looked at him funny.

For weeks he had searched, looking ever for clues to the whereabouts of the shards, the sword, anything. He had finally found a track to take which, incidentally, had led him right back to the abode of his deceased master, Vercci. Even though the urge to return and continue guarding the Money Pit was vilely tempting, Voldo had to persevere. He wasn't getting any younger after all. Though it had taken some remembering, Voldo had managed to charter (despite being obviously frowned upon bit its crew) a seaworthy vessel whose captain had promised to take him where he needed to go as long as he got a small share of treasure from the Money Pit's depths. Voldo had returned to Vercci's remaining mansion in Naples, furious when he found it in shambles and unattended after all these years. Most of Vercci's treasures had been lost in the Italian Wars, but that did not mean Vercci, such a great and powerful man, could be dismissed as a man of flitting fame. Voldo, suppressing his anger, had searched the mansion for clues, and he amazingly found one. Vercci had a link to another avid collector of curious artifacts, who might have any number of shards. Luckily, he kept most of what he did not need on hand in an unguarded retirement villa in Venice, not too far from Naples. Ecstatic at the opportunity, Voldo followed the trail to find this Massimo Senicci to the home where he might find something he could use.

After his arrival at the mention less than a day ago, Voldo had made short work of the caretaking staff. He now had a headache after the ear-piercing scream of one handmaiden, which frustrated him to no end. After his disposal of the many women cluttering the place, Voldo had begun to root through every corner. When he realized, after hours of precise circumspection, that he'd overlooked the treasure room huddled in the back, his irked demeanor had just been encouraged. Now, he was mere inches from his precious goal. He could see the fragment with blind eyes, hear its temptress voice with deaf ears, feel its presence permeating the room, but another frustration had presented itself, namely Cervantes.

A bad memory, one of an older day, flitted through his mental corridors as he looked on the pirate…

_ The large-gabled hall with rafters of splintered red fir met the eyes of the eager folk within or entering the cramped hulk of a building. High above, banners proclaiming various endeavors and rewards swayed gently in rhythm with the curling smoke from a large stone fireplace, the fire of which burned with a particular intensity. Its warm cheer illumined face and muse. Benches and tables flanked the walls, surrounded by all manner of food and drink, pot and vessel, paper, book, quill, and quire. There was an insatiable darkness and murk in the habitable dimness around, which was barely augmented by pale firelight that had huddled itself up ignobly in an opposite corner._

_ Voldo, wrapped tightly in a cottony frock, pulled himself inside, sopping wet as the creaking door slid back into its cracked place behind him, blotting out the sound of heavy rain sheets pelting the barely paved road. The small plaque, withered by daily wind, on the door swung against the boarded wood with several successive thumps. Voldo looked at it, eyeing the blotchy, black paint lettering upon it that spelled out the three, succinct words, 'Black Tail Inn.' Groaning, her turned and edged forward into the shadows, seeing his goal in the corner, more ominous drifts of smoke in plumes wafting around his masked head. Voldo, smiling beneath his own gaudy facial mask, walked more briskly now. He headed over to the wistful figure at his table, sitting idling and smoking a protruding pipe from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. __"Excuse me," murmured Voldo's raspy tenor, "you are Cervantes de Leon, yes." Cervantes looked at him darkly. __"Who wants to know?" queried back the pirate, his rough tone overshadowing Voldo's. Voldo, tapping his fingers together, calculating, took a solemn seat, leaning forward on the oaken table's edge and looked intently at the narrow-eyed pirate. "I, Voldo, and my master, Lord Vercci." The piratical figure, shrouded in the mystery he'd forged, looked at Voldo with a grin apparent on his fuzzy features. __"Ah, the merchant of death 'imself." Laughed Cervantes, his cackle icy and shallow, "now this _is _an honor." Voldo scowled coldly beneath his gilt mask. __"Do not patronize me pirate." he grumbled, steadying himself in the seat coolly, "I don't need your help."_

_ "Then why are you here?" posed Cervantes, still grinning lazilly as he sat, leaning back sluggishly and oozing into his chair. __"I've got a job for you, from my master." __Cervantes considered momentarily, laying a gloved hand, wrapped in warm fur, on the table. "I'm listening, go on." Voldo grinned undetectably as he leaned in, his vocal volume lowering conservatively. __"My lord desires something," began the servant of Vercci, calm and collected as he issued his edict to the pirate, "a fabled weapon, a sword. He has many mercenaries searching the globe for it, but he suspects a buccaneer such as you would be most successful. I assure you, if you find it and return it to him, there will be a considerable reward in it for you."_

_ Again, Cervantes contemplated his rugged, stubbly face pensive. "So, this Vercci wants my aid, does 'e? I don't usually work for pay." Voldo nodded in understanding, but saw the use of simple heckling in this matter. __"As said, the rewards shall be very great, very great indeed. Vercci is a rich man, Cervantes." __There was a considerably longer pause. Voldo, trying not to look eager, hovered on his rickety chair's edge. Cervantes pulled up his open hand and waved it around, signaling for more drink to be brought. As a husky, scantily clad maiden plopped some tankards down with a satisfying clank, grinning a wily grin, and turned to stroll calmly off as Cervantes leaned in, nursing his frothy drink. __"Well, I need not the money, but such a hunt could be enjoyable. You've got yourself a deal, Voldo"_

_ "Indeed. It's a pleasure doing business with you, Cervantes de Leon." __Their hands went up simultaneously, Cervantes' large one closing on Voldo's miniscule one, and they shook on it._

Now, the blind, deaf, and mute Neapolitan was staring up, with an irked look invisible on his face, into the colorless, dead eyes of Cervantes de Leon. He knew immediately who it was. This was that wretched pirate who he himself had recruited to hunt for Soul Edge, volunteering him at the Black Tail Inn in Spain many years ago. Now, the pirate had Soul Edge as promised, but didn't look ready to hand it over.

Cervantes, on the other hand, was just as eager to get this fragment, its lingering aura gesturing to him, but he had had a fine day so far. He was ready for another fight and, grinning a grim grin, showing his pale yellow enamel, pulled up his blades and closed tight fingers around each hilt. He felt the cool metal resonating, quivering in anticipatory glee. His grin widening, the ghastly expression marring his dead flesh, Cervantes advanced and charged.  
Voldo, exercising nimbly, flipped, backward in mid-air and landed firmly on his feet. His left katar, its blades gleaming fervently, flew forward and bounced off Cervantes's hooking blade as he swung the other in another great arc. It missed as well, traveling slowly through the air, and impacted the ground with great strength, sending up a cloud of dust a debris as it dented the floorboards beneath the two combatants. The female blade of Soul Edge, wielded masterfully by Cervantes, swung again and again, the blade thinning and growing longer and the arcs and swings becoming greater. Voldo thrust his lithe and compact weapons, each in hand, upward and caught the weapon of his opponent as it spun, the chain that flung from his wrist and glowing, curling around the staff of that sword and pulled forward, sending Cervantes sprawling onto the carpet and into a ruffled heap of satiny cloth. His female blade thinned into the shape of a more slender sword with a jagged hook at the point, by now crackling with coursing lances of fizzled electrical energy, and yanked at the sword as he rolled onto his feet and jumped back, away from the blade of Voldo, which crackled in eerie unison with Cervantes' weapon.

"You're going to pay dearly for that!" roared the dread pirate as he continued. The male blade cracked tirelessly, slashing at Voldo's arms and legs whenever he shifted his attention. He was soon covered in minor gashes from the lashing, pulsing cudgel of metal. Voldo's right katars found their mark as Cervantes spun the weapon and slashed a deep cut in Voldo's upper leg. The pirate staggered backward and slipped, but his sword lashed out another time at Voldo, cutting him across the chest and sending him back as well. Slowly but surely, Cervantes felt his gathering conglomerate of wounds sealing themselves up. Strangely, Voldo seemed just as barely effected by his injuries as the immortal Spaniard. In an instant they were both up, Cervantes rolling forward into a crouch and Voldo practically levitating up over the ground before falling into a contorted stance that resembled the arched walk of a crab as he skittered across the floor. They fought back and forth, swerving in different directions as the dashed in every direction through the swelling pit of room debris. The backed up towards a the wall of the room, Voldo at the receiving end of Cervantes' weapon, the great sword, larger than Voldo's, in one hand, and the gun-sword Nirvana in the other, thrusting and jabbing madly at the floating creature. The female struck the wooden walls of the mansion room nearby several times, breaking through the weak material. Voldo turned as Yoshimitsu turned and his blade cut a deep gash in the wall, which began crumbling. The gun-sword drove forward and glanced off the wall, cutting another slash in it. Cervantes's sword then met Voldo's two katars, crossed, and the three combined weapons drove each other's weapons into what remained of the structure. The room's wall collapsed beside them, ruined wood and mortar, shards of oak and plank and fanciful wallpaper fell about them as their two great weapons slashed crazily at each other in endless succession.  
The roof of the villa nearly imploded, the rafters plummeting downward with one whole wall removed. The other three walls stood as the roof slipped from its hold and crumbled inward over the corridor and mansion's inner rooms. The villa's end was still habitable, with the general roof remaining and three and a half walls, but was in disarray. Cervantes made the situation worse by lunging through the debris and swinging a huge sword arc which impacted Voldo's arm and katars. He parried well, but the force of the weapon sent him crashing one of the remaining walls. He peeled himself off it quickly and flipped forward back into the dust and smog-filled street outside, almost slipping off into the watery roads as gondoliers and passersby suddenly took drastic notice of the combatants. They fought again, Cervantes's sword seeming to shrink as he switched to jabbing with his other arm. The sharpened tip struck Voldo several times in non-vital locations, as did Voldo's blades, clashing and emitting powerful waves of sound and strength that rippled through the town like a stone in water.  
And still they fought, dueling madly like men…or beasts possessed…

They fought their way right off the edge of the last land sidewalk, both warriors splashing down awkwardly into the water. They grabbled beneath the waves, sending up a hail of foamy spurts, but soon separated as Cervantes flew back and up. His swords glowing beneath the surface, causing the froth to boil and bubble, ominously, Cervantes shot up, bursting through the plane of murky blue, as water spilled around him, he fell like a bird of prey, thumping raucously into a gondola. The hapless gondolier, shocked into stiffness, didn't even look up as Cervantes quickly parted his head from his shoulders and ran down the length of the gondola, his blades aflame completely. He saw Voldo surface, crawling weirdly through the wavy roadways until he flipped himself onto a gondola, twisting his back grotesquely, and kicked the gondolier from his perch.

Cervantes, growling like a lion, leapt from his gondola to the other, dragging his swords behind so they each left flaming tails of singing lightning that zapped the left behind gondola. In seconds, the wood was eaten away by the energetic glow and, much to the surprise of anyone in a thirty foot radius, the vessel cracked and splintered apart into thousands of flaming wood slivers. Cervantes cackled maniacally as he brought his sword down on the next gondola. Thankfully for Voldo, the contorted Neapolitan hopped out of this boat as well to another just as that one burst apart, showering the area with jagged splinters. Cervantes fell back into the water, groaning in mere annoyance as the wooden shards honed in on him and pierced his chest and arms. Ignoring the pain, he clawed his way to the water and pulled himself up onto the next boat, soaked.

Now the dread pirate had time to notice what was going on around him as this new gondola swerved madly forward. Among the awestruck crowd's faces, he saw the littered visages of his crewmembers, weapons ready and faces scrunched into scowls. He smiled, the toothy grin widening ominously, and hopped onto another gondola nimbly, roaring at them. "READY YOUR WEAPONS, LADS, THERE'S BLOOD TO BE SPILT 'ERE!" he thundered, his maniacal laughter swollen to the breaking point.

The pirates took the hint just as Voldo made his way onto the roadside, land at last, and stood up straight for once. One pirate, a rigid, curved blade whirling in his hand, plunged through the scattering crowd (some of which scattered right into the water) and leapt at Voldo. The Italian's blind face looked up at the plunging form and speared him as he fell with both katars, spinning the bloody corpse into the water road beside him. As another stabbed at him, he lopped off the offending, hairy, bristly hand and watched the pirate who had it kneel, wailing in pain. Voldo wasted no time in decapitating the miserable buccaneer and heading towards Cervantes de Leon. Cervantes just scowled, his twirling blades still wreathed in demonic gold, and parried the attack. Grinning murderously, he sliced at Voldo. He managed, to lasso an arm around the enemy and spun on his armored heel, flinging Voldo into the water again. He brought up Nirvana, jerking his thumb back and squeezing the trigger of the hilt-built gun spontaneously. A smoggy flash exploded from the muzzle, the bursting pellet slammed into the water with a tremendous splash. "WHAT'RE YE WAITING FOR," he boomed at his gathering crew, "BLOW 'IM OUT OF THE WATER!"

Not waiting for further instruction, every pirate in the crowd pulled out, the crew on a whole bristling with sword and firearm each. Wheel-lock muskets and pistols leveled at the water, countless clicking noises of cocking hammers sounded in eerie unison. A wave of fiery smoke billowed, drowning out the excited and confused screams of bystanders. The water below Cervantes sprayed up as at least twenty spherical bullets penetrated surface. As the smoke wrapped around everything and the water settled, silence managed to return.

**…**

Cervantes panted very softly, concealing his weariness and chuckling in his raspy throat. He walked over; hopping from ruined gondola to gondola until he'd forded the roadway and neared the mostly destroyed mansion. He looked over his shoulder at his anxious crew, smiling. "Go on, boys," he said grimly, "They're all yours…"

He turned back, listening happily as his crew immediately pounced on the watching Venetians. He stalked over, through the smoky wisps and piles of bulky rubble. He leaned down, half kneeling, and began to rummage through the rubble for the wanted shard. He found the small, leather, sealed pouch it was in and lifted it up into the air, smiling. But his smile suddenly faded. There was no substantial thing in the pouch, no weighty object! Looking dark, he reached inside and pawed around madly. That damned Voldo had taken it when his back was turned to the pirate and escaped into Venice, probably having fled the gunpowder blasts. Cervantes managed to tear a small, shriveled note from the pouch as he ripped it angrily to shreds. Letting the sounds of death behind comfort him, Cervantes, with angrily shivering fingers, unfurled the note and leaned in close to read it.

_To Milord Baron Massimo Senicci, __Venice__, __Italy__,_

_ I have thus enclosed one of my findings at the excavation site as a thankful gift for your funding of my project. At first, I thought your supplies would never come, but the vessel bearing them docked into port at __Suez__ last week and has arrived here in caravan yesterday, much to the merriness of my workers. To be honest, I did not expect so much in the way of food for my crew, and I thank you all the more. __I will be issuing in new laborers from some of the poorer cities around; many of them do not need pay, so I will be less pressed for your funds. The workers seem to be pleased with their duties, and there have been no complaints as of yet. Your suggestion to allow them into __Cairo__ once a week was simply brilliant as has kept them all in good spirits. Only the archaeologist you employed seems displeased with anything, and he is ornery in general. I believe that, if your friend were not so good in his trade, I would have sent him on his way by now. Most others seem just as annoyed as I by his crabby disposition, but it is not a major issue in any respect. __Within in this pouch lies on of the many objects I found. Keep it where you will, it may not have value to you, but it does to me. If you desire more of these fragments, I assure you there shall be many found at the dig site, I can guarantee that, milord. The digging on a whole has been going very well, in my opinion, and some considerable progress has been made. New sections of the tomb in question were unearthed thre days ago and two whole fragments were found. This venture will doubtless be a success!_

_ Most Sincerely, Countess Isabella Valentine, Kurhkek Dig Site, __Egypt___

**…**

On the other side of town, after navigating a maze, a complex of road waterways, the soaked and bleeding toothpick of a broken man yanked himself from the water and onto the alabaster, sloping sidewalk, where he floundered back and forth like a fish. At last, his bizarre floundering subsided as Voldo began to gather himself up, standing, as a vast puddle of water gathered beneath him. He shook himself off like a soaked canine, water mingled with strands of his scarlet life fluid flying all around in a neatly cropped radius. He was covered in sores, wounds, cuts, and every kind of painful blow dealt to him in the fray, but he was a resilient and sturdy being. Though the blows stung, biting like wretched insects, he ignored their coupled presence and let the injuries tend to themselves.

Though he could not see, the pupils of his dead eyes, hidden beneath a cloth band, looked down in sensory anticipation at the small, glowing, jagged chunk of metal sitting, clasped in his bony, wrenching fingers which uncurled with a graceful slowness, allowing the cooling glow of the fragment to resonate, beating with a soothing rhythm that mimicked the racing tune of Voldo's enervated heart. He squuezed those talon-reminiscent claws of digits over the item, suddenly feeling a faint but revolutionary surge through the veins and ventricles of his hand which lanced up the length of his emaciated arm. His heart's beat sped nimbly, quick on new, mercurial feet that sent his echoing organ into a melodious succession of thumps that made him feel a youthful vigor that he had not before known. It was refreshing, like a summer breeze, a ray of sunlight...or, to Voldo, the calming relaxation of silence, darkness, and peace that was now present in his mind and body. He felt numb, but still mobile, and blinked his unseeing eyes.

Voldo, servant of Vercci, looked out at the city of Venice, stetching near and far around his cold, hunched visage. Still dripping, the aged vassal began walking, dragging his flexible legs behind, along the sidewalk road, looking down through his blind, pupil-lacking orbs into the suddenly calm water which had settled in the wake of his ascension from it. He dragged his legs faster now, pulling them fully in front of him as he hunched over forward, arching his back towards the earth as he began to bound across the tiles and cobblestones, crawling and leaping like a savage animal...the savage animal that he knew himself to be...


	11. Where Ninjas Flee

Author's Note: I know I shouldn't muddle _every single chapter _with more notes, but I wanted to make something clear. About Korean names, there are three. Technically, a Korean name has two parts, but the last name is divided, making three names in all. Even though canon says Yun is 'Hong Yunsung' it should be 'Hong Yun Sung,' and 'Seung Mi Na,' but I do it the canonical way. Wow, that rant felt utterly unnecessary...

jade: I _should _thank you for helping me out with the grammar...But I won't, so there! HA, NO COOKIE FOR YOU...Ok, nevermind. You're mastery of stuff is superior to mine. Congratulations, you've successfully reduced a small boy to tears (the small boy being my friend's little brother who I beat up cuz I was mad at you...not!) I have excuses! Yay! First, about the needle. I've seen that a needle can prick and/or enter the neck at certain locations and not hit vital sections, especially if it's very thin, like ninja poison needles (I know you have better knowledge of this stuff, but I've seen 'em too). About the paragraphing, it's this new format. I _can't _make it the correct way, the format doesn't let me. But, enough drivel, on with the story! You in particular might recognize a passage from this.

Also, I'm instituting a new policy. Even though it's really egotistical of me, I'm gonna try to wait until I have three reviews per chapter before a new update, just so I know that the world hasn't lost interest. More motivation for y'all. Lastly, to get this chapter, you might wanna know what kamas are, if you don't already. There is a good site that has pictures of them, weaponmasters.com. Look in 'ninja equipment' for the necessaries.

Disclaimer: I.....DO own SC2 is brutally stabbed Fine! I don't! Namco does! I do, however, own Jung San Kyuk and Kwan Hung Yon of the Seung Dojo, as well as some other surprises various unheard cackles

**Chapter X – Where Ninjas Flee**

"I'm going to find him," said Seung Mina resolutely, pounding her hand on the table to confirm her stability and unwavering position on the matter, "He left a clear path and we need to find out what is was that he wanted in the armory." The others in the room reacted accordingly. "He wanted our equipment, it's as simple as that." grumbled Jung from the other end of the table. "I think Mina is right, Jung." Commented Master Seung, the only one in the large, well-lit room, who was sitting, "A thief such as this could've taken what he wanted, and yet he took nothing. He came here for something, but it was not found. Though it is risky, we should indeed find out what the thief wanted, especially if it was a ninja of some sort. He could've have been a Japanese spy…or something else, more mysterious."

"So there it stands," interjected Mina, "I shall go, follow his trail. He has left a path behind, and he is injured. He could not have gotten very far as of yet, so he will be easy to catch. I will have him found before the next sunrise, father." Seung shook his head calmly, taking Mina's hand with some mild force as she turned, jolted with a veritable lance of excitement for a reason old Seung could only guess. "Don't be so hasty, Mina. Even if he is wounded, you cannot go alone." Seung stood, clasping his wrinkled hands in front of him and pacing past the table where Mina and the two more experienced students, Jung and Kwan, stood, "Jung and Kwan will go with you, and the three of you will leave immediately to track the thief. I will expect you, as you said, to return before the next dawn."

"I won't fail you, master." Said Mina dutifully, bowing in a dignified fashion to her father who bowed back. Seung, nodding further to his daughter, spun on his heels to face Jung and Kwan, "I am entrusting the safety of my daughter to you two. Do not shirk your duty, be strong." Kwan responded smartly, nearly severing the last word of his master. "We will, master Seung." he replied, bowing and pulling a hesitant Jung down with him.

Both Kwan Hung Yon and Jung San Kyuk were valued students of Seung's, and both the master and Mina knew they were trustworthy. Jung was a headstrong youth, a year Mina's junior, with unkempt black hair and fiery green eyes. He was the Seung Dojo's expert with hwarang blades, or Ssang twin swords, a pair of precisely matching swords wielded together in a single, flashy style. He was a little more impatient, more arrogant, but looked as naive as he often sounded, with a younger, more intentionally nonchalant look always plastered onto his sunken-cheeked face. Kwan was more level-headed, older than Mina, with a more conservative look apparent behind his hazel eyes and brown head of hair. He was one of the older students who had developed his knowledge of Weol do, a broader, straighter blade with a staff-like handle that he could maneuver with deftly. He was, of course, both rougher and more course of will in mind and body, looking fouler and more grizzled, but just as haughty as Jung, though he still paid more respect to those whom it was due to.The two of them had become one of the many pairs of friends in the dojo, and often talked and sparred together. Of most of the students, they were closest to Mina's age.

"One request, though, before I leave." said Mina, halting everyone else in the room as they turned. Seung turned first, a warm smile on wizened features, his memory pools of eyes glinting as if he knew something all others did not. "What is it, my child?" She hesitated, cauding Seung's position to eace delicately as he edged towards her, laying a fatherly hand on her shoulder to steady the girl as she looked up. "Hwang Sung Kyung leaves for Pusan this day…I…" she stammered, choking on her slurred words, "I wish to say farewell to him."

"Of course you may. Surely the whole dojo will see him off."

**…**

As Seung Han Myong had said, the turnout for Hwang's departure was an ample one. The combined crowd of dojo students gathered outside the Phoenix Court, under the dangling roof of shingles that hung over and off stout wooden columns behind. Yunsung sat regally displayed on a steed, which snorted smoky breath and stamped, ripping up weak patches of idle grass beneath. Seung and Mina stood nearest the steed, which brayed in anticipation as Yunsung steadied it, letting his easy hand glide down the length of its mane. Seung, his wizened face creased with a magical smile, turned from a serious-looking Hwang and faced the throng of students on the veranda and grassy knoll.

"Students of the Seung Dojo, students of mine, future warriors of this great land," he began, eliciting an easy cheer from the swollen mass, "The time has come to again bid a fond farewell to a great man, a man who has done so much for this dojo!" With this, there was another cheer as Seung's oratory voice swelled to a regal high, his calming baritone expunging doubt from his student's minds. "Hwang Sung Kyung, your next master, your teacher, our herald and protector, and personal friend, is leaving this day for the coast to fight for Korea!" Yet another rippling wave of cheers from every corner of the dojo. Civilians had gathered as well in the area, wearing rustic clothes and still armed with their farming tools as they watched in awe.

"He was a friend to all of us, and so shall he be still, my brethren. My sons, my daughters, students, boys, men, and all; look, this day, upon a great man, a man who will surely bring us the standard of Japan tomorrow eve, if I know him as I do. My friends, Hwang Sung Kyung, Patriot, Warrior, and Hero!" The uproar was unconquerable as it raged, rising drastically above any existing scales; it broke the very barriers of the sky above. Causing the fluttering birds to shudder and pause in their course through the sky. The murmuring mass suddenly shifted in volume as Hwang's horse clip-clopped sideways, braying noisily as Hwang Sung Kyung swiveled it to face to dojo students.

"Your master may be wise, my friends, but he is exaggerating nonetheless. I am but a few of those things, and barely that. It is not I who you should cheer so much for, it is yourselves, your achievement. Look up to me if you wish, but I find it is better to look up to all of you, willing and persevering students of this dojo, this nation. You have studied, and shall continue to, and I expect you all to be as good as you think me to be when I return, though I already know it shall be so. You strive for excellence, and here it may be achieved." He paused dramatically, "You, my friends are the heroes!"

As another rousing cheer waved up in the audience of Hwang, he kicked his horse around. Seung, looking as calm as ever, turned slowly, his robe drifting about like billowing clouds, as Hwang's horse trotted briskly towards the grassy plain leading out of the city. Suddenly, Mina, who'd been standing beside him, plunged past him and sprinted towards the horse as it began to get farther away, drifting out of the crowd's line of vision. She caught up with him quickly, letting her ceremonial hanbok dress for the occasion wrinkle up and drag in the dust as she grabbed the reins of Hwang's horse. The Korean turned sluggishly on his horse, looking warmly at Mina as she tried to speak. At first, her mouth fell open, but no words formed on her moving lips. Finally, she managed to get formulated words out. "Hwang, I'm going to miss you…" she paused meekly, considering her words as the dripped out, "really, I am." She finished, looking down in a dejected manner. Soon, she felt a rough hand on her chin which lifted up her head.

"I know, Mina, but I won't be gone long." He said, his manner very comforting. "You don't know that." Replied Mina softly, "You're leaving this dojo at a disadvantage." Hwang smiled, ever diligent in his optimism. "I have to go, and I'll bring all the more glory back." His smile, a weak but fervent outpour of emotion, was reflected in Mina's shimmering look in response. "What if I run away again, hmm?" joked the Korean girl, laughing meagerly and obviously encouraging Hwang to do the same lamely, "Who's gonna chase me down and bring me back?" Her amusement suddenly dwindled, but Hwang smiled yet further and leaned down on his threadbare saddle. "Maybe you won't." he whispered into her ear, "Could I trust you to stick around here until I get back?"

"You know I can't promise that, Hwang." Chided Mina soothingly as Hwang reared back up onto his mount. "I thought as much." He said back, chuckling as he pulled the horse along at a snail's pace, allowing Mina to walk beside, "Well, I'll sure you'll be fine whatever you do."

"And I know that is just as true for you, good luck, hero of Korea." She said at last, her smile full. He looked back at her, a glint still evident, sparkling in his eyes, "Good luck, Mina." A smile, gentle and calm upon his face, Hwang kicked the steed beneath him faster, goading it slowly onward until it broke from Seung Mina ad began to speed into a steady gallop. As Hwang began to shrink on the grassy horizon and stony path, he turned and waved. Mina waved back, managing to deftly hide as she shed a silent tear. She didn't know if Hwang would ever return, no matter what he said. Wars took lives, even if those lives belonged to the most skilled warriors. She turned now, a very faint, crystalline twinkle upon her face, sliding down, but it was gone as she swiftly blinked and headed back towards the crowd.

**…**

The three of them, Mina, Jung, and Kwan set off an hour later, with barely half the hubbub of Hwang's departure. They bore no horses, since they needed none. The thief, as Mina said, could not have gotten very far in less than a whole day. They followed at first the path of oily puddles, gooey and black, and the light, almost unperceivable footprints made in the thick dirt and grassy knolls. It was an oddly dark day, which drifted sleepily into night, augmenting the foreboding feeling in the air. The trio moved on, as quickly as they could as the day dragged on, but seemed to get nowhere.

It had been a long time since anyone said anything by now. The first mingling moonbeams began to crest a darker sky, which was bled crimson as dusk enshrouded it. Jung was obviously the one who simply wanted this to be done, already bored with the whole endeavor, his arms still crossed impatiently and a dark, irked look in his murky green eyes as he paced behind the other two. If course, silence contributed to boredom, so he considered the possibility of bringing up something to talk about. As hesitant as he was, he moved up towards Seung Mina on the path. He was not a close friend of Mina, or Kwan for that matter, but he knew them well enough and talked to them often, so he was confident enough to speak first to them.

"So…umm…Mina…what do you think about Hwang leaving?" pondered Jung delicately, breaking the silence as all three of the had hoped. Unfortunately, the look he was met with was not as pleasant as Seung Mina glanced at him as she walked, dragging her zanbatou wearily behind even though the walk had held neither length nor strain. "What do you mean 'what do I think?'" she said coldly, "What do I think about what?"

"I dunno, just askin'." Jung backed off meekly, moving away from Mina on the trail. "Do you have a point to make," snapped the female coldly, "or are you just making conversation." The boy nodded, letting his head droop in dejected defeat and the resilient twang of boredom. "Conversation. No matter how close that ninja is, we've probably got a while ahead of us. He's probably still running now." Jung finished his remark more weakly, his words fading. With a look of tedium, Mina indulged him. "So, what's your question?"

"I guess I meant, 'are you going to miss him.'" Mina didn't, in fact, look as if she was going to respond, but she was beaten to it anyway. "Of course she is," interjected Kwan, stabbing at the problem jovially as he chuckled, "what do you think she was saying to him while he rode away?" He smiled more wryly as Seung Mina scowled back at him. "Hey, that's not your business, Kwan."

"C'mon, Mina, you can't tell us you're not going to miss him 'a little more' than everyone else." The female Korean scowled openly, her face twisting meagerly as her cold brow furrowed around the statement. "But, I'm not!" she said defensively, "What are you talking about it?" She was evading the question, but still fibbing with her answer. Kwan, smiling, moved towards her on the path and raised a rough hand, counting reasons on his finger. He pressed an index finger against his palm, citing his first example. "Well, for one, you always go to his practice and teaching sessions even though you study a different style than him."

"He's the second most skilled warrior in the dojo." Retaliated Mina easily, smiling too now as she felt the argument which had developed was going her way already. "_Everyone _goes to his practice and teaching sessions."

"She's got you there, Kwan." muttered Jung, intercepting the conversation with his two cents. Kwan ignored his younger compatriot and turned back to Mina, searching for reasons. "Well, why does he always bring you back whenever you run away, hmm?" Mina's mouth was promptly open, but the words that came out were absent of sound. "Because…just because…He's the only one who…ummm…" she faded too, losing track of the proper answer to the question. Kwan just nodded, feigning pitied understanding with a false sad face. "You see, you can't answer that one. Every time you run off, he's the one who finds you."

"Hey, that doesn't mean anything at all. It-"

"You always avoid talking about him too." Kwan cut her off cheaply before her retort was complete. "That doesn't prove anything either!" She yelled, kicking a stray stone on the road towards her verbal opponent. "Wait, there!" Jung interjected at last, thankfully before the conversation became too heated.

In the distance, not too far, nestled between the willowy gingkos, was a small shack-like abode, more concealed by the wreath of nighttime darkness that had descended. Twinkling stars shed a gentle light that hit the homely place very slightly, exposing it for the Korean trio who's pace began to mutually slow, the three of them edging towards the structure between the bulky tree trunks and decked with brambly bushes. Mina shot a last exasperated look at Kwan as she extracted her zanbatou from its place hefted upon her shoulder. Kwan, Mina, and Jung each pulled out their weapons with mild trepidation in their steps, walking slowly and with silent steps to the place that was their destination.

**…**

The house was indeed small, barely a shack, but some things stuck out. For one, the design style of it was mostly Japanese; a shingle-tiled roof of sea cerulean, thin planks of driftwood connecting flaps of papery material, swinging shoji doors, and very little light oozing from within. There were many thick bushes, littered with dense foliage, around the house and sprawling onto the sloping stairs of the porch, which Mina was the first to walk up, looking around with careful circumspection in her gaze. The next thing she noticed was the shoji door open, hanging limp as it had been severed from its hold in the wall. It had been assailed obviously, the papery substance that mad it shredded and exposing the veiling darkness inside. Slowly and brimming with a careful cautiousness, the trio walked, one foot before the other, inside.

The place was pitch-black, as Mina blinked to see within. There were small orbs of dripping light that surrounded various candles around the wide room they stood in, hovering in an aura which illuminated very few sections. Some light peeked in through the translucent shoji walls. The three looked around, trying in vain to be calm, attempting to locate some flicker of movement in the structure.

Suddenly, there was a sound, a creak of wooden plank beneath all of them. As if on cue, much to Mina's dismay, the door swung closed behind the trio, blown by a stray but mighty draft of blustery wind. The eyes of Mina and her cohorts flitted to the sound's source, which happened to be right by one of the glowing candle wicks on a table at the other side of the room. There was something in the light, a vague, sable silhouette plastered against the wall like a shadow, but with a leafy rustle, the shadow disappeared from behind the candle's lamp-like lighting.

Then, just as suddenly, a ghastly crimson light blared into the room, with the sound of heavy footsteps following it. The glow was merely the scabbard over a glistening blade, held by two clenched fists, one gloved and the other wooden which almost fell in. The pulsating light emitted by the swords bathed the trio and the wielder in a mild and deep red light. Mina raised her zanbatou as she recognized the sword holder.

"You! Yoshimi-"

"Quiet, you fool." The thief cut her off, "You'll be silent if you value your lives!" Jung and Kwan looked at the garish clothing of the thief, bathed in the radiant, blood-red light that swelled and twisted in a pulsating manner around the man's sword. "What's going on here!?" roared Jung loudly, eliciting a prompt shushing noise from both Yoshimitsu and Mina, who had caught on. He repeated his question more quietly, "What's going on? Wha-" The clockwork ninja, mechanized in the shadows, interjected again. "We're not alone in here. I was trying to find out who was in here, but the noise you made fleshed them out." At this, Jung's face went brilliant red as he whipped his ssang blades up, glinting dully in the darkness, and brandished them at the thief. "Don't try to blame us, criminal. We don't care who is here, we've come for you!"

'Silence!" snapped the thief abruptly, "Are you trying to alert the ninjas?"

"Ninjas, what ninjas?" yelled Jung, his volume rising as he spoke, totally incredulous.

All of a sudden, the veiling light of Yoshimitsu's blade flared outward, rippling vaguely over the room and inflaming every candle wick. Seung Mina's eyes shot open widely as she saw three figures, completely black and apparently one with the shadows, dashing through the checkered rays of light and dark towards her. Something turned all three heads, snapping them around, though Yoshimitsu didn't turn when a very large something emerged from the darkness, peeling out of it in mid-air, and drove something else into Jung. The hapless Korean, groaning in pain, slid and flipped backward, right through another shoji door, tearing it easily, and skidded to the wooden floor in the next room. He didn't hear Yoshimitsu's confirmation.

"Those ninjas."

Seung Mina, in a single gaping instant, completely lost track of what was going on. She clearly saw Jung's form hurtle past her, through and easily breaking wall, and into the next room, followed by the coupled gleam of many unfurled weapons. There were men around her, lunging. Her zanbatou was up in a graceful flash, and she buckled backward when a blade bashed into her weapon's staff. She flew, but recovered as the two blades careening towards her slammed down. She looked toward Jung, but saw only one of the black masses, lithe and slender, leap through the hole he'd left. Yoshimitsu plunged forward towards the last remaining shadow and the two of them tumbled back into the darkness, leaving a trailing tail of light from the thief's sword. The two of them rolled backward, slashing their way into the next room.

Kwan rushed towards the figure towering over Seung Mina. Suddenly, the figure, who Mina could clearly see, ran forward while still locked with her. She watched in amazement as the being, apparently a ninja, but clad in black unlike Yoshimitsu, flipped backward, over Kwan's twirling whirlwind of a sword, and landed like an alighting bird upon the ground. As Kwan turned, bewildered, the ninja's foot plowed upward and outward, crashing into Kwan's upper chest. He too slid backward, skidding along the floor and bumping into the wall. Before Mina could react, a gloved hand encircled her throat and she felt herself flying through the air as the blades glinted, almost hovering over her when she hit the ground a room away. She rolled backward, propelling herself to her feet, and tried to kick the ninja, but he caught her foot and thrust her against the floor. She felt the air bursting out of her, but stabbed up as she gasped and groped for stuffy air. The ninja easily deflected her zanbatou stab and stabbed with his two blades, ninjatou. They were both up and at each other, but both glanced off of each other and slid to the side, spinning in place.

They crashed back over, fumbling, but the ninja seemed agile enough to compensate for his every mistake while Seung Mina ended up stumbling awkwardly about through a table and chair filled room, one long table with a cloth and lanterns on it and some small matted seats around it primarily as adornment, knocking over a number of the objects which were promptly cut to ribbons. Still mostly in darkness, but for some livid moonlight, Mina kept bashing unintentionally into the room's obstacles. She had by now deduced that this was the home away from home of her original quarry, Yoshimitsu. It had all the proper signs, a decadent lounging room, eating and practicing areas splayed out a about the place, and certainly other things Mina had not seen. But, the young Korean's mind was whirled from its attempt at halting with more vigorous blows from the opponent. She found herself up against a wall, but spun her zanbatou adeptly, knocking away his swift and sporting stabs. He leapt back, landing on one foot while Mina charged. He expected the maneuver, and his foot off the ground sped up, knocking her zanbatou from her grip. But the battle with Yoshimitsu had taught Mina a few things, and her hands wheeled up to catch the rod as it left her grasp. She brought it down, striking the ninja's upraised knee with the staff of her weapon. A very slight groan hiccupping from him, he arched his fist around, striking Mina's shoulder with his metal hilt and fist around. Both warriors stumbled, slightly weakened. Mina readied herself for the next attack.

But, as a mild surprise for Mina, the ninja did not attack. He stood stock still, allowing Mina a chance to catch her breath. At long last, panting and shooting belligerent glances at her foes, Seung Mina was able to analyze the opponent and her surroundings. The innards of this multi-room hideaway were relatively civilized, with simply designed shoji doors and paper walls, tables and tatami mats littering the floor, with all the ecoutrements that a temporary abode should have for any purpose. Mina took a moment to wonder how Yoshimitsu had secured a Japanese-stylized residence in a Korean forest, but her narrowed eyes soon aimed back at the ninja, looking into his focused eyes, the pupils of those orbs minute and pulsing with a faint ember of fire that lurked behind the emotionless grille of his face. He was still clad in black, but his eyes and part of his nose were visible through a turbaned mask of cloth. He had deep, calculating gray-green pools that looked as if they were each focused into pinpointing rays that projected from each dot of a pupil. His skin was rough and somewhat dark, though Mina could not tell if it was his skin of some form of paint he was wearing. As Mina breathed deeply, bringing her zanbatou up for attack, the ninja spoke.

"Not bad, child." Said the icy baritone suddenly, "You've got some skill." Mina looked at him like a snake poised to strike, but her words were those of a question which she spat. "Who are you? Why are you here?" The cloth on the ninja's mask wrinkled meagerly, indicating a probably grin. "Not that you need to know," he responded, his stance easing up, "but my name is Satoshi, Akuda Satoshi. I like for those I kill to know my name…They can take it to hell and tell it to the darkness. Then, even the darkness will fear the name, after enough of my victims have descended."

"Very poetic." Growled Mina coldly, "But it's useless to say such things. You don't scare me." The ninja called Satoshi actually cackled, the stabbing laughter resounding inside his mask so it was eerily muffled. "On the contrary, young one…I can tell when people are scared…and you are scared." He took a step forward, but his head turned immediately to Mina's side. Instinctively, Mina turned to see what Satoshi was looking at. Standing there, beside her, having arrived in the most perfect of silences, was Yoshimitsu, his blade pulsing madly and angrily as a crimson ooze slid off of it, trying to cling weakly. The scarlet was being pulled into the red-tinted metal as the smell of death began to permeate the air.

"Seung Mina," said Yoshimitsu's strangely eccentric voice beneath his own mask, "go to your brethren. See to the other ninjas. This one is mine." Mina looked at him, not understanding, but saw the vague glow emanating from the eyes of his mask. She nodded slowly and backed up, quickly taking off through what was left of the wall towards where she'd last seen Kyam and Jung. Yoshimitsu's masked eyes didn't follow her, but instead remained eternally fixed on the shadow-wreathed silhouette of Satoshi in the light and dark before him.

"Yoshimitsu of the Manji, long time no see, old friend." murmured the shadow ninja, raising his two unscathed ninjatou. "It has been a long time, Satoshi." Shot back Yoshimitsu, his voice utterly monotone, "Now, let's get this over with." The ninja's eyebrows sagged with sarcastic sorrow. "Now that hurt, Yoshimitsu. I thought you'd been waiting for this moment for years and wanted to savor it." Yoshimitsu was probably smiling as well beneath his grotesque face plate. "On the contrary, I'd hoped you had succumbed to some lethal disease. But, killing you myself will be fine."

Yoshimitsu paced forward, as Satoshi readied himself and backed up. The two of them began walking sideways, stalking each other. Their four eyes, two beneath a mask and two almost thus, met, glaring and narrow, filled with a hateful and ruthless fire aimed aptly. In an instant, they had both dived forward and collided in the room's center. They fought backwards and forwards, blades clashing and slicing away doors and walls around them, sending chunks and shingles of debris everywhere, splinters careening madly about. One swift uppercut to the hip sent Yoshimitsu shooting from the room, but he rolled to his feet after a short, bouncing skid across the floor. He returned the attack by sending a hilt and fist into Satoshi's jaw, which propelled him through a shoji door. They backed up, stumbling, twisting, veering, and dodging, the two rolling about as their weapons clashed again and again, the rippling sound sending sprays of dust up from the shattered floorboards.  
The combatants were weary, but continued without fail as more moonlight began to flow in through the window slits. Satoshi felt his hands tiring as Yoshimitsu beat his katana down on them with merciless resolve. He found himself running backwards as he fought, right through more weak doors and walls as wooden splinters welled up in his back. Mist flowed off Yoshimitsu, cascading over his body as his arms whirled. Satoshi's foot managed to swing up, bashing his chest, and he followed through with an ax kick from the other side. Yoshimitsu caught the foot with his talon-like fingers and katana hilt. Grabbing the leg, the thieving ninja spun Satoshi backwards, who flipped disoriented through the air and into the next room. Satoshi was up instantly and parrying. His eyes scanned, as did Yoshimitsu's, the surrounding room to see that the two had fought their way into a ruined armory of the building. This was where Yoshimitsu, ever a ninja at heart, had been keeping his equipment. He had furnished it with racks, shelves, and wooden crannies stocked with a bizarre melange of objects, weapons, tools, and a dizzying assortment of seemingly useless items. Satoshi's scan of the room, though, gave Yoshimitsu time to strike. His katana were aimed at the ninja's chest, but he pulled aside and blocked. The force of both blades sent Satoshi's ninjatou backward and thumped into the wall. A kick to the leg and another slice later and Satoshi's other blade had ricocheted off the floor. Yoshimitsu swiped again, but Satoshi quailed beneath it and rolled backward. His hands flew back against the weapon racks, grasping a quartet of shuriken. They whizzed through the air in a second's span, but Yoshimitsu's katana shot up and the rotating jagged blades glanced harmlessly off it.  
Just as Yoshimitsu found his composure, he found Satoshi rushing at him with a pair of kamas, glinting sickles borne aloft in his hand. The weapons slammed down on his ready blade, pressing them down and forcing both warriors into a lock. Satoshi leaned over the three muddled weapons and firmly head butted Yoshimitsu, who stumbled, but pulled up the katana in time to knock one kama from Satoshi's hand and slice the other, causing Satoshi to drop the other. But, before the demon had finished his foe, a roundhouse kick sent Yoshimitsu through the wall again and onto a waiting table in the room's corner, his back arching uncomfortably. Satoshi, in his ninja-nimble fashion, flitted over to the fallen foe.

In a split second, his ninjatou recovered, Satoshi's blade was up and plunging down.


	12. The Battle at Pusan

Author's Note: Okay, I shouldn't be putting this chapter up, considering I was going to wait for more reviews, but the fic is being expedited by others (not that they aren't good) and I want to keep this one noticed so it gets those much needed reviews. REVIEW, people. That's what keeps me going. _jade: _There is actually a reason why Satoshi looks the way he does. You gotta stop unraveling my plot, woman! Very astute, though. Cookie for you. Now, all shall be explained in due time...Especially if you review. Next chapter may take a bit.

P.S. There is _no _Yun/Taki romance in this chapter, if it looks that way. My beta (technical, that is) commented that it seemed like something might be developing, so I just want to assure everyone that that is not the case. There's an 11-year age difference, and I've already-...well, that would give to much away. So read, _**review**, _and read some more, **_than REVIEW!!!! _**Thanks...P.S.S. A cookie to whoever recognizes my villain.

Disclaimer: I own no SC2. I'm pretty sure Namco does, actually.

**Chapter XI – The ****Battle**** at ****Pusan******

It had been days, as far as Yunsung's weak recollection could tell. It had been hard enough walking for that long, but carrying an unconscious ninja made it worse. By the minute, Yunsung considered dropping Taki and continuing on, but her pulse seemed unstoppable, and Yunsung could not find it in his perturbed heart to live a living female who had, quite possibly, saved his life, lying by the roadside. Even if the wound was not fatal, some Korean would find her and kill her anyway, thinking the Japanese woman to be a spy, which she very well might be. In the long run, it was curiosity that kept the flame-haired warrior from leaving Taki. He still didn't understand why she'd risked her life for him. She obviously didn't like him, and certainly hadn't stepped in that dart's way on purpose. Yunsung posed an educated guess that she had some ulterior motive.

He lugged her as carefully as he could; trudging through the rain-soaked, muddy farmland as he neared the coast. There would be more farms, countless, barely navigable paddies of millet and race for Yunsung to ford. He'd almost been assaulted by an angry old man with a chute of reed the other day for trotting on his very minute supply of millet. Now he had neared Pusan, the bustling port and military city of Korea. It was the only city that had doctors who Yunsung could trust. Technically, he'd been closer to the Seung Dojo when he encountered Taki and should've returned there to get treatment, but he couldn't face his master and friends after running away so recently.

The sky was calmingly cool now, a sifted breeze whistling with a very slight eeriness, which was thankfully overshadowed by the serenity born in the skies. Countless dots of white hot light speckled the cloak of night, and Yunsung managed to crane his stiff neck up to look happily at the sky, peacefully reminiscing about how he used to lie back on the tall grass just outside the town of the Seung Dojo, reclining on amber fields with Hwang at his side, both with arms clasped comfortable behind their heads and staring up with stirring sighs at heaven's unending beauty. That had been paradise, but was to be no more. Now, the sky's beauty could not be dwelled upon. With gooey mud welling up on his legs and a ninja on his shoulder, Hong Yunsung of Korea had far too much to be thinking about other than the silver euphoria brought on in dusk.

Trudging along, weariness setting in upon the redhead, Hong Yunsung at last felt the stability of crusty earth beneath the tattered remnants of his feet. He looked up, his eyelids drooping, and saw the oblivious roofs and beaming windows, lit with hanging lamps scented of graceful oils. He sucked in the wafting smell and sighed, reminiscing once again as he shook his head, ridding himself of the melancholy humor, and continued towards the greater buildings. Here, there were only smaller structures, patched together foolishly with mortar and misplaced stone. He headed, hefting the ninja's limp body from arm to arm as his strength began to ebb and flail in its last seconds. The streets around him were oddly empty, but Yunsung dismissed that as he headed towards one of the houses towards the southern center of town, near the coast. He managed his way up the sweeping stairs to the veranda and rapped his hand wearily upon the metal-rimmed, oak solid door. No answer came, merely a vague echo from within. No sound otherwise, and that resounding soon faded entirely, the pounding noise evaporating like water on a sweltering day.

He moved along, worming his way off the porch of this home to the next. The process was repeated, as was the result, a duplicate stillness within this abode as well. Sighing, almost slumping and sagging as he dragged his numbed feet along the ground, Yunsung continued on, trying with his last tattered breaths to find a house that still had someone in it. _'How can all these houses be empty?' _he thought, _'This is __Pusan__, one of __Korea__'s busiest cities!' _At last, a hollower sound reverberated in one of the houses as footsteps could be heard coming from within. He heard much commotion inside, more than enough to be one person skulking about. There must have been at least five or more inside, but the windows were shut and barred so he could not see within. At last, as he leaned, his chest heaving steadily, against the door, it swung open fully, with a headache-inducing metallic shriek of protest.

In the threshold stood a petite, shrunken fellow with lazy, curled gray eyebrows and a stubbly little oval-shaped face. He wore normal clothes, expect for the color spattered apron wrapped stupidly about his protruding, rounded waist. The gruff eyebrows shot up as the man looked out at Yunsung, who began to speak hurriedly. "Shille-hamnida, sir, but I really must use your home for something."

"Oh, don't worry lad," said the man understandingly, "It's not my home anyway." Yunsung didn't bother asking why the man was in someone else's home, since he was too busy thinking about Taki's revival. "Alright, fine, just let me come in. I have a sick patient here!" The man shook his head, bemoaning some such thing, and pushed the door aside for Yunsung. "There's plenty of room, considering." Yunsung, turning his gaze from Taki long enough, looked up quizzically as he entered. "Considering what, sir?" The man just shook his head and beckoned. "Look within."

In the long, rectangular room, the floor of sloping birch wood planks was pockmarked with arranged sheets, blankets, and cushions of varying size and position, laid out without a care for aesthetics throughout the gaping, hallway-like room. Several, five or more men were walking quickly through the place, adding more candles to the area to illuminate the room's dark corners and flesh the shadows out of the vicinity. They also placed leaky buckets filled to the brim beside each of the makeshift beds. Yunsung wondered what was going on as he looked across, seeing an elongated, body-sized table at the other end of the table with thin leathery straps on it halfway down its length and at both ends. Trying to disregard the strangeness and blinded by relief at finding a place to rest, Yunsung stumbled over to one blanket and carefully set the cold husk of ninja down on it. He got up, stretching his numb, bruised legs and turned fully to the shorter man, standing nearly a full head above the stout little man. "This woman is sick, she needs a doctor." The man didn't even hide it as he laughed dumbly, gesturing around the room. "A doctor? There must be five in this room alone? Ever since this became the new hospital of Pusan, all the available physicians have come here to set up for the first arrivals."

"What first arrivals?" questions began to spill extraneously out of Yunsung, "Why is this the new hospital of Pusan. Why-" The short man cut him off swiftly. "Woah, too many questions, lad. It's the new hospital because the old one, in the temple, is too close to the shoreline. If the invasion occurs, the foreigners would easily reach and overrun the small temple there. So, the medical center was relocated to this empty home after the evacuation." Yunsung just stared at him for a slovenly moment, both looking strangely confused, until Yunsung went off again like a gun firing. "What invasion? Evacuation? What is all this nonsense you speak of? Explain yourself!" He almost spat right into the man's face, who flinched and backed off.  
"Settle down, kid." He tried to quiet the panting redhead, slipping forward towards him again, "You haven't heard, have you?" Yunsung looked at him, annoyed sparks flashing in his darkened eyes. "Heard what?" he growled. The man looked back at him with a pitying look and lay a broad hand on the boy's shoulder. "The Japanese fleet has been sighted at sea, not far from the coast. It was guessed that they'd go for the biggest coastal city…which is Pusan. The navy established a permanent garrison at the coast and evacuated the city so no one would be hurt when the attack came."

Yunsung stared again, his jaw dropping as his eyes widened, nearly pulsating in place. He should've known, he'd inadvertently stumbled upon the site of a soon-to-be battle with a Japanese ninja wounded in his arms. He didn't even wait before swiveling around and rushing towards the door. He had no idea what he was doing, he just let his muddled legs carry him to the threshold until he hit something there and fell backward. He looked up at the obstacle and gasped open, recognizing all too well the face looking down at him.

"Hwang!?" he almost screamed, his voice's pitch shooting up in shock. "Yunsung!" said Hwang, a mixture of misplaced happiness and disappointment on his face, "It's you! The whole dojo is worried sick about you! What are you doing here?" Yunsung, trying immediately to look as if Hwang's very sudden arrival hadn't fazed him in the least, leapt up, dusting himself off indignantly. "I was just checking out the sites."

"He dropped off a sick woman," interjected the bulgy-bellied man, "She's over there." Yunsung froze as Hwang walked past him. Taki was Japanese, and she was in a Korean city surrounded by Korean warriors, and _he _had brought her here. _'Shit!'_ Yunsung spun around and darted after Hwang, but it was already too late. As he sprinted over the beds, Hwang swiveled on his heel and grabbed Yunsung by both shoulders angrily.

"What is the meaning of this!? You brought one of the enemies _here_? What the hell is the matter with you, Yun?"

"Ummm…" the only, slurred syllable that escaped Yunsung's lips as he searched for an answer. He went with the only thought that struck him. "She's a spy, yes, a spy and…and…she attacked me, but I knocked her out and…here…she is…yeah." Hwang looked at him skeptically, seeing the lie in his eyes, but explored the possibility that Yunsung was telling the truth. "So, she was a spy and you captured her?" he questioned, his tone slightly amused. Yunsung nodded vigorously, his arrogance and conceited buffoonery taking over abruptly. "Yes, that's right. She was hard to beat, but I did it, and brought her here." Yunsung nodded, grasping the strange situation made up by Yunsung. "So, you mean to take her to the naval garrison?"

"No!" Yunsung shouted, realizing the mistake he'd made, "I wanted healers to tend to her so I could…ummm…wake her up and interrogate her." Yunsung shook his head this time, lowering his firm hands from Yunsung's shoulders. "She should be interrogated by the military, not by you. Come, now that you're here, you can help defend the garrison south of here. We'll take the spy to Admiral Lee." Yunsung gasped again, trying now to break the bad habit, "A-admiral Lee Sun Shin is…is here?...In Pusan?" Hwang looked at the boy as if he was insane. "Of course he's here, Yun, this is a naval and military base now. It's only right that the commander of the Korean fleet be here. He's the garrison commander." Yunsung gaped, nodding dumbly. Hwang gestured to the ninja lying limp on the bed sheets. "Pick her up and come with me. Admiral Lee will be thankful for our help." Poor, confused, and stupefied Hong Yunsung just kept nodding and dutifully obeyed the man he'd vowed to defeat.

**… **

The air outside was eerily cold, and a fluid sea of clouds was tainting the starless sky of dusk now. It was growing later, the last thinning rays of piercing sunlight overshadowed by the thick layers of smoggy cloud husks and night's radiant cloak.

In the distance, Yun could see the garrison. As small and slipshod as it was, it impressed him. Pusan, the city, had a great harbor at its southern end, but most of Pusan's shores were sandy beaches. Over the beach and the houses bordering it, a makeshift wall of fortresses and watch posts had been erected seemingly overnight. There was a mass of buildings that looked as if they'd been glued together, attached by small bridges, ramps, newly built wooden walls, some bare plaster and stone to hold the whole scheme of it in place. Overall, the garrison was just a wide-width wall, broad and tall with a roof above capable of being walked on, some barbs of turret and pockmark towers with thatched roofs set up every hundred feet down the garrison's length. The fortress dipped into the ground at left and right, surrounded by high sand and steep slopes. The whole building was designed to overshadow the beach below it, which was depressed into a valley that seaward invaders would have to cross under a hail of archer fire.

The northern, less military looking section of the garrison was very modest compared to the rest, with a much lower-roofed set of buildings strung together. Yun and Hwang arrived unceremoniously at one of the doors and were admitted inside by a pair of low-ranking soldiers, smartly dressed in Korean military outfits that shone of gilded cerulean to signify whatever naval status or prowess they held. Hwang greeted them, but Yunsung did not, and simply followed as they led the pair into the garrison. The younger Korean's mind was racing vivaciously, surprised and confused by his surroundings. He was going to meet Admiral Lee, which would've been a point of pride for him, except that he was far too concerned about manufacturing excuses for Taki. He had _seen _Lee before, but never met him.. For years, most of his comprehensive life, Yun had looked forward to encountering this great man. Now, he wasn't sure if he even could.

The four, Yunsung most behind, walked through a growing throng of commotion within. Near the northern end, there was very little hustle or bustle, but as Yunsung and Hwang were led deeper into the overnight fortress of Pusan, soldiers began to materialize out of nowhere. They were everywhere, some tall and some short, some heavily armed and some clad in rags, some walking and some running, all beginning to clutter up the area. After being separated from the men of minute rank, Hwang tried to locate a more knowledgeable figure amongst the crowds. He waved down one of the guards and his mate, dressed more fancifully than the others with uniforms of pale teal and straps of leathery armor, swords at their sides. Hwang, pulling Yunsung along with him, took one by the shoulder. "Take us to Admiral Lee Sun Shin! Now!"

Though confused, the men obeyed, recognizing the mighty Hwang Sung Kyung after a few double takes and weary glances. He had 'performed' and exhibited his prowess with the blade before the emperor himself in the Phoenix Court enough times to have a recognizably daring face. So, they were led on, deeper into the pulsating pit of hustle and bustle until they had come into a more fully lit room. There, between the mess of guards who Hwang and Yun forded like a raging river and its froth-white rapids, was the man who Hwang desired to see. He had tick brown hair, with vague strands of aging, wizened gray, but was fit and bore an adequately strong musculature. He was clad more regally in a robe-like vest and military tunic, darker in color with fringes of royal, noble blue and shanks of silver plated mail strapped to shoulder, leg, and arm. His face was clean shaven, but for some mild stubble with the ivory tinge of age that he had carefully exterminated from his visage. He wished, obviously, to look as the bold young Captain who'd once led them to victory aboard seaward ships that bounded across the waters of his triumph. As he turned from his conversation, he grinned wisely to see his loyal past friend.

"Hwang Sung Kyung, my friend, at last you've come. And, you've brought a guest…two…guests." Lee's aged, experienced eyes turned to Taki, still hanging in Yunsung's arm. "What is this that you bring me? A Japanese female?"

"She's a spy," said Hwang curtly, beating Yunsung to it, who's mouth was hanging slack in readiness for a rant, "Yunsung here was attacked by her, but he won and here she is for you." At last, a hint of confidence and pride was reflected in Hwang, but Yunsung was too busy formulating a way to not have Taki beheaded in front of him. He knew that, no matter how good a man Admiral Lee was, he would not hesitate long after the interrogation to flat out kill any Japanese prisoner who'd threatened his countrymen, especially after he found out that she wasn't a spy with vital information. "Very well," said Lee soberly, "I would not have expected a spy. The Japanese are blunter than that, as I know them. If they sent a spy to the north, there must be something they are planning. You've done well, Yunsung." Lee shook Yunsung's hand firmly, though the redhead was too dazed to realize what an incredible honor he was receiving. Lee turned from him and gestured to some guards.

The guards, right beneath Yunsung's nose as he stared blankly, picked up Taki's limp body and dragged it across the floor. Suddenly, Yunsung was again jogged rudely into reality. "Wait, where are you taking her?" he said quickly, grabbing one of the guards by the shoulder. "To the holding cells, of course. We need to wake her up before the arrival of the Japanese fleet so we can get the needed information." Yunsung scowled invisibly at Lee, and couldn't help but follow after the guards and the Admiral, with Hwang insatiably behind him. The two pulled Taki through the small room, which had in it several narrow but sturdy wooden, rectangular columns to hold up the low hanging, shadowy roof of the room. Most of the poles were at the room's corners and sides, but one was in the center, a firm support beam. The first guard leaned the ninja against that central one and stepped back to allow Lee to inspect the wound. With a strange look in his beleaguered eyes, one of the soldiers looked up. "Admiral, sir, I don't think this one's knocked out." He said, with confusion in his fluctuating, throaty pitch. Admiral Lee Sun Shin looked questioningly at him, then at Yunsung. "What do you mean, not knocked out." The one guard held up Taki as he dragged her and pointed to her limp, pale throat. "There's a mark here, from a dart or needle, probably poisoned." He said, pointing to a very slight indent in the flesh which was tinged eerily yellow. He looked at it curiously for a moment before looking at Yunsung. "How exactly did you knock this ninja out?" he murmured suspiciously.

Yunsung gulped, so openly that both Hwang and Lee took notice. He'd been discovered, but his slow wit tried to formulate a solution. "Umm…She threw a needle at me, but she missed, and I…I…threw it…back…" it would've been slightly believable if he hadn't paused and stuttered so much. Both Lee and Hwang snorted under their respective breaths, recognizing the obvious lie in the statement. Lee raised his hand, his mouth opening to speak, but was overshadowed by the voice of the guard examining Taki. "Admiral," he said quickly, "I think we could wake 'er up, maybe. She's not unconscious…just…not conscious…if ye get my drift." Lee shook his head, as did Hwang, but the man continued anyway. "Anything would do it, a quick jolt, something sudden."

"I've got something sudden for her." growled Lee, obviously angry at Yunsung for lying. He walked over to the limp ninja and didn't hesitate to drive his palm across her face. She slumped to the side, falling from the grip of the two guards, but the effect was enough. The eyes of the female drifted open as a bead of blood fell from her mouth. The guards bent down as her eyes began to adjust to the world around her and pulled her back up against the pole. "I think that did the trick, don't you?" laughed Lee, looking at Hwang and Yunsung. To his surprise, neither of them laughed back. Hwang, scowling, was obviously displeased, but times of impending war had made the two nations and their people enemies. No Japanese man or woman could expect any form of amnesty from Admiral Lee or any other Korean.

"Wha…what's going on?" murmured Taki, the words coming very slowly as reality began to flood back into her.

"You hear that?" Lee said, smiling, to Yunsung, "She doesn't even know." The Admiral approached Taki, looking down and assessing her carefully. "Actually, ninja," he said to her, "we were hoping you would tell us." Taki looked up at him, trying to figure out the situation. "Who are you?" she said drearily, realizing with some little dismay that her lip was split open at the middle. Lee looked down on her and shook his head. "Now I'm starting to see how you beat her, Yun." He smirked, "This one doesn't look like a very good spy anyway. But, she'll probably have the information we need."

"Spy? What? Who are you?" Taki, piecing together her surroundings, spoke more coherently. Lee turned, gripping the shimmering metallic hilt of his blade. "I am Admiral Lee Sun Shin of the Korean Navy, but that's not important. What _is _important is who _you _are…"

As Lee paused, openly expecting an answer, something interrupted him. A young man, gasping for breath and sweating bullets madly, nearly fell into the room, pushing past Hwang and Yunsung and falling to his knees at the feet of Admiral Lee. "Sir…" he took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure, which was no where to be found, "Sir, there are ships…thousands of ships…thousands of Japanese ships…on the horizon…coming this way…warships, Admiral, warships!" Lee's eyes widened, as did those of Hwang and Yun, but Taki, still in the dark, just looked up and tried to figure out why she was bleeding at the mouth. Lee paced forward, removing his hand from the blade at his side, with a look of fuming hatred resting upon his brow. "Come," he said swiftly, "The time has finally arrived. The Japanese will wait no longer, and neither shall we. Come, my friends."

As Lee and Hwang neared the edge of the room, Yun hung back, nervously fidgeting. "What about the spy?" he said, reluctant to pose the query. Lee didn't even turn as he answered. "Since the battle has come, we have little need of her. Keep her here, simply enough. Maybe she's worth something to them, but I highly doubt it." And, actually shivering with anticipation as an eerie silence descended on the room, the hallway, and the surrounding vicinity, Admiral Lee Sun Shin marched out, followed by Hwang, who shot a concerned look at Yun before leaving.

Hong Yunsung turned, about to leave, but hesitated for a second. The two guards behind him, still holding onto a confused ninja, pulled Taki's arms behind the large pole she was leaning against and coiled some thick rope around her wrists there. After she was securely fixed to the column, the two of them headed out, tipping their hats to Yunsung as they left. The door remained open behind them, and Yunsung watched it for a long, seemingly endless second before he turned back to Taki, who was, incidentally, looking right at him.

"Alright, are you going to tell me what's going on now?" she said, almost completely unfazed by the situation. Yunsung, his mouth still unfixed from his upper jaw, began to speak meekly. "I…I had to tell them you were a spy." Taki nodded, "Yeah, I sort of figured out that part." Yunsung looked down, his eyes clouding up a little. "I'm sorry…I wanted to thank you for saving my life…back there…People don't usually risk their lives for me, especially people I don't know." Taki, despite looking badly injured, managed a self-satisfied smile. "I wasn't really risking my life. I knew that the ninja's needle had a certain kind of poison on its tip. The poison would've killed you, but I've built up immunity to it over the years."

"How did you know what poison was being used?" said Yun, with legitimate curiosity. Taki looked up at him, pausing for the first time before she spoke, until, at last, she murmured the answer. "Because…because the ninja that attacked us was a ninja of my clan, the Fu-Ma…I knew his name, I remembered his face, his style from back at our dojo in Fu-Ma No Sato. He was called Hidosu. He was very young, but a good fighter…I taught him."

Yunsung had no idea how to respond, none at all, his eyes, livid pallor, and slack jaw all bore a blank, depthless look. "You…you killed your own student? You knew him, and you killed him?" his voice sounded more horrified than astonished. Taki nodded solemnly, "Yes. Kid, the Fu-Ma want me dead now. Times have changed, so I changed. Whether he knew me or not, I wasn't going to let him kill me…or you." Yunsung, still in a state of near-catatonic shock, let his eyelids droop merely. "Why did you care if I got killed or not?" he said after more uninterrupted silence.

"I still had questions for you. I didn't expect to be in a naval prison when I woke up." Yunsung stepped back as she finished speaking. He took a step towards the door, but pulled it back as he heard Taki's caustic tone again. "So, you're not going to return the favor, I assume" she murmured, looking a little disappointed, but otherwise unaffected "…at least not yet, anyway." Yunsung shook his head, not entirely sure what he was actually thinking. "No, I can't…I'm sorry."

His mind already in the midst of a raging battle, Yunsung left the room and slammed the door behind him.

**…**

The beach was suddenly filled, though it had not been but minutes ago. It was if ships, huge and boundless in their course, had just materialized on the waves. They were truly just cresting the horizon, but they seemed to have pulled out of a descended mist. They were not too far, since the horizon was not too far, and thus the thin line of the Japanese fleet leapt, drifting ominously towards the shores of Pusan. There were a great many of them, that was assured, and all bearing a mess of different standards. On their decks, though they were far off, one could see that there were many men crammed onto each, bristling in anticipation of the battle ahead.

Hwang stood, looking through an open upper window, an arrow loop, surrounded by the other commanders of individual Korean groups. Admiral Lee leaned over the railing beside him, peering out towards the ship-bearing waves with a gilded telescope firmly in hand and cupped over his eye as he examined their course while it drew nearer. Soldiers rushed through the room, emptying the weapon racks, arsenals, and tables of all equipment before scurrying back to their positions. Below, looking down, Hwang could see the acute tips of hundreds of arrows at the ready in their bows, poking out from the many arrow loops and crenellations. On the beach below, great, sharpened poles of wood had been pushed into the sand as obstacles, along with dug trenches and dips to make for preventing terrain difficulties. The whole wall-like structure bordering the valley of sand was only about one hundred feet high, not astoundingly far from the earth, but windows, slits, and arrow loops had been gouged into it for archers and warriors alike. Far below, at the bottom and center on the top of the sloping hill of sand was a moderately large double door gate built into the confined gatehouse, allowing entrance.

As the Korean warrior stood, humming an ancient ditty of the sea to calm his savaged nerves, he heard the huffing and puffing of tired lungs behind him and clapping footsteps on the garrison floor. Hong Yunsung spurted up from behind him and alighted, leaning beside Hwang on the rail of the window.

"Have I missed anything, Hwang?" Hwang raised his hand, causing his voice to dwindle on instinct. "Silence," he murmured, filled with a foreboding tone, "the ships are nearing the coastline. Doubtless one of their leaders will either ask to parley with Admiral Lee, or address us right out. Even these foul foreigners would not be so dishonorable as to simply attack us without first declaring their war on us." Yunsung looked at him, not entirely understanding. "But, why should they do this? There is nothing that requires them to tell us before they attack. It would be like warning an opponent before stabbing!" A faint, flickering grin crossed Hwang's lips. "Yun," he said as the ships drew ever nearer, "In war, there is always some guideline. There is some boundary, some vaguely remembered code. Even if you must kill your enemy, you need not kill them dishonorably. In battle, single combat, only the weak attack without provocation. In war, that provocation should be made clear. Say, the Ming Empire arrived in Pyongyang and attacked. That would not be an act of war: that would be an act of futile terror. If the Japanese want war, they will say so here and now, if they are simply raiding our lands, they will attack first." He paused, mouthing something under his breath before he continued, "Also, I have seen the Japanese in battle…On my travels, I could not help but meet some…There are ninjas, there are ronin, there are samurai, warriors of every sort, but each of them have some guideline to follow. War without rules is not war, it is simply a hell manufactured by man where one can kill another without repercussion or satisfaction."

At last, the first ship, in one of the longest single seconds in Hong Yunsung's life, collided roughly with the shore, sending up a gentle but ominous spray of sand and water. The ship was, in fact, not as imposing as the others, smaller in bulk and build, but bore more armoring and subtle intricacy in the gilt on its mast, its sides, and the banner of its sails. The ship hovered momentarily above the shore before it crashed down sturdily, stopping fully against the coastline as the silence returned, unaffected by the whirring of waves beneath the other ships. After a time, more spots of men appeared on the vessel and milled over to its railings. Several surrounded the jutting prow of the ship.

Though Hwang and Yun could not well make out what was going on so far below, they could each tell as a small semicircle was formed around the spot on the ship's front, allowing a few more regal looking dots of human beings to push their way in as other ships began to pull towards shore. The few dots were invisible to the Koreans in the garrison, but Hwang and yun could tell that he was somehow important. Suddenly, as complete silence fell, the other ships screeching to a halt in the sand and readying themselves, a booming blast of a voice came from the stilled flagship.

"SOLDIERS OF KOREA, MEN OF PUSAN," roared the voice, echoing thunderously over the garrison, possibly augmented by some technical megaphone or device that had swelled his melodramatic oration, "CITIZENS OF THIS CITY; FOR YEARS NOW, OUR TWO NATIONS HAVE BEEN AT ODDS, WAITING FOR THE OTHER TO STRIKE. TODAY, MY PEOPLE TAKE THE INITIATIVE; THIS PROBLEM SHALL BE RESOLVED HERE AND NOW! I COME BEFORE YOU TO ASK FOR A CIVIL SURRENDUR ON YOUR PART, UNCONDITIONAL AND COMPLETE! IF YOU WISH THIS WAR TO BE OVER BEFORE IT BEGINS, YOU WILL BOW TO THE OBVIOUS VICTOR BEFORE BLOOD IS SPILT. I, LORD ODA NOBUNAGA, GIVE YOU THIS CHANCE!"

Oda Nobunaga; Yunsung had heard that name. He had heard it from Master Seung. He knew little, next to nothing of this feudal lord, but he was supposedly powerful in the foreign lands of Japan, with a great surplus of control over the military and government. Yunsung had heard he was a general of some sort, but had not expected him to ever lead his troops at the front, since so few men of rank and honor did these days. The only commander he knew who rallied his troops in mid-conflict was Admiral Lee himself. The flame-haired Korean looked down at the unperceivable figure, barely able to see him.

"Pompous fool," snarled Hwang, "He is issuing terms for surrender before there is a war to be won." Yunsung glanced at him, for once with little or no arrogance in him when he looked at his rival. "He has many men, Hwang" murmured the redhead, out of character, "…Many." Hwang shot a fiendishly prideful look at Yun this time. "Don't tell me you're scared, Yun." He laughed. The calming sound of Hwang's ever-confident laughter evaporated Yunsung's fears as he shook his head vivaciously, loose strands of fiery hair swinging. "No, of course not…I just…" his voice became meek again, no matter how much he tried to sound unflinching, "I didn't expect to stumble upon a battle of these proportions…Hwang, I'm worried…I was running away, I was trying to find glory, and here is glory…But I don't see any, Hwang, I only see thousands of men who want the blood of my people."

"Yun, you wanted to fight. What you are about to see is war, nothing else is. You might as well learn now." Hwang concluded with a warrior's wisdom that reflected the image of Han Myong, whose tone echoed in the voice of his most famous and greatest student. Yun looked up at him, both confused and understanding. "Hwang, I know what it's like to kill men now…I did it, my first one, on the road here…I think I'm ready." Hwang nodded in consolation, but looked stern and serious. "Death, or killing, is not something to take lightly, Hong Yunsung. There is an appropriate time when you must take human life. Always spare it if you can, but take it if you must and only if you must. There is a time and place for it…That is a lesson, I fear, that my friend Admiral Lee may have forgotten, but that cannot be remedied now. The storm is here, we have to face it."

"YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!" repeated the voice, heedless of the conversation he couldn't hear, "THE ARMIES OF JAPAN SHALL NOT STOP!"

"Get on with it." Hwang snorted, even though this Oda Nobunaga couldn't possibly detect what he was saying from so far away. Just as he said this, the lord below apparently realized that he was not going to receive an answer and retreated slowly into the mass of men on that vessel. Now, with no one speaking, there was complete and total silence, save for the lapping of the frothy water at the beach and resonating footsteps on each ship. There were now ten ships that had alighted in the beach valley, their men ready to pour off and charge…

Which was exactly what they did...


	13. Dark Rise, Dark Set

Author's Note: Ok, I'm starting to pump these chapters out, but I will still be slow; 1-2 chapters per week, I hope. Probably all summer, since I don't have many summer jobs or things to do. So, you're all in luck, at least those who've been keeping up. I'm glad the review list is increasing, and many thanks to those who haven't reviewed. I have to think of a way to make this thing more popular without using console characters.

Reviewers: _------_: Actually, all characters WILL be involved, as I specified earlier. Look out for a very special one in the next chapter. This chapter introduces 2 new ones anyway. I've been focusing too much on male characters, gotta try some females. BTW, what turtle ships? I'm confused. _Jade_: I'm really sorry about the reading thing. I just can't fix it, though I've tried. I think I might have made this one a bit better as far as paragraphing goes, but I can't tell. You'd better keep reading! And, yes, Oda's a bit old, but…_myrmidon_: The secret villain is Oda Nobunaga, which is right there, but the point is his recognition. What did Oda Nobunaga do that makes him stand out?

Disclaimer: I don't own SC2. I'm fairly very actually totally really positive sure that Namco does.

**Chapter XII – Dark Rise, Dark Set**

It was far too hot; of this Isabella Valentine was absolutely sure. _'Damn the heat,' _she said to herself, musing as she batted a withered fan at the air to encourage what cool air desired her to approach, _'Damn the heat and damn the day!' _It had been hot, searing hot and sweltering, for more than a whole day and night now, and Countess Ivy Valentine was sick of it, both mentally and physically.

She sat now, reclining on a more makeshift bed, littered with fanciful designs in the plush outlay of it as she leaned over, grabbing a fresh, but heat-soaked date from a clay bowl on the sandy table beside her. Closing her slender, supple fingers around the fruit, letting its juices slid down the very few creases in her palm, she pulled back onto the bed, barely a bed but a weak wooden frame erected meagerly with cushions and sheets stacked on it. She looked up, her icy eyes staring blankly at the hanging, curved ceiling of the tent she lay in, dragging a smooth, noble hand across her sweaty brow. It was usually cold in England, and she didn't like the heat. She berated herself inwardly for being so easily downed. She would be out, supervising her many employed laborers, if she did not have a fuming fever that raged about her. Her pale skin was flushed red as she lay, embalmed in a regal purple waistcoat on the bed, breathing heavily to soak out the ill humor of the fiery disease. That was why she was in here, the damned heat. She had spent too much time outdoors, bathed in the blameful glow of a luminous sphere which the natives called Amun-Ra, but she knew perfectly well to be the sun.

Now, for three hours straight (which was very long for a woman of her vigor) the platinum-haired Briton had been abed, peeling the flesh off dates lazily and waiting for frequent progress reports from her chief laborer and archaeologist. Her laborer chief, Tepemkau, was a native of these sunny, sand swept lands. The archeologist was the more displeasing of the two, a grasping, wrenching old fool named Giuseppe Osirni, who hailed from some fine academy in Naples. Ivy didn't care at all for his disposition and was thankful that Tepemkau ran the working process on the site, since she didn't trust Osirni to be diligent about it in the least. Tepemkau could get the job done, and had taken over Ivy's role in her sick absence.

Right on cue, the tent flap fluttered open, letting in a wave of rippling sunlight which caused Ivy to wince, her eyes tightly closing. She saw a more muscular, large form lean down to squeeze beneath the low hanging roof of the pavilion and sighed. "What is it, Tepemkau?" The burly man, bald as a cue ball and tattooed with sweaty muscle walked over to the bed. "Someone, Countess, wants to see you." He said, his gruff voice somehow smooth with a preternatural wisdom evident in it, "She just arrived at the dig, and was watching us. Says her name is 'Cassandra.'" Ivy managed to push herself up until she was sitting on the edge of her reclining seat, breathing in great gusts. "I see. And she just barged in while you were working?"

"Yes, ma'am," nodded Tepemkau, "but she didn't do anything. Just asked to see who was in charge." Ivy contemplated quietly and turned, a sour look in her frosted eyes, to her chief laborer. "Send her to Osirni, I have not the patience to deal with nosy guests." Tepemkau shook his head swiftly, drawing nearer to Ivy as he spoke, very solemnly. "She wants to see _you _ma'am, and she has a sword to back her up." At that, Ivy couldn't help but let fly an incredulous laugh, which in turn made Tepemkau wince, as Ivy's arctic laughter always did. "You don't mean to tell me that you're afraid of that, do you?"

"No, ma'am, but so far she has been mightily persistent." Ivy, scowling very slightly as she took another deep breath, shooed Tepemkau outside. "Fine, send her in, but keep guard on the tent flap, alright?" Tepemkau, as he back out of the pavilion, bowed. "As you say, milady." He pulled aside the tent flap as it fluttered easily in wind speckled with particles of sand and spray. In walked a woman, not necessarily petite, but shorter than Ivy. She wore simple, amiable dress, but colorful all the same, and had a small, round shield bound to her back and a shield dangling wearily at her side.

"Miss Cassandra, I presume?" said Ivy politely, standing on wobbly legs. "Alexandra" replied the girl, her voice comparatively more gentle than that of Isabella Valentine, "…Cassandra Alexandra." Ivy smiled comfortably, beckoning the girl forward. "Why do you come here; another leech hoping for a share of the findings." She said, oozing pleasantness as the words formed on her lips, though her brow was trying to furrow. "No," Cassandra assured her swiftly as she walked towards Ivy, "quite the opposite. I'm here to make sure those findings are destroyed." At this, Ivy snorted visibly. "What? What do you mean by that?" Most women, or men, would've shrunken from the assertive power in Ivy's voice, but Cassandra did not. "I mean, you've excavated many things, as I've seen. Many things are valuable, but some not for the right reasons. You have unearthed fragments; those are what drew me here. I only wished to inform you that those must be destroyed. I originally planned to just destroy them right now, but I supposed you might agree to let me, so this didn't have to become violent."

Ivy's brow managed to furrow as her eyes narrowed, "Arrogant little…" she paused, quavering barely, and suddenly relaxed her look, "You…You've got a lot of spunk, Miss Alexandra." Cassandra, though confused by the nature of the platinum-haired Countess, smiled. "I'm glad you think so. Now, about the shards." Ivy nodded in understanding. "Sit down, Cassandra, You and I should talk." Cassandra, still puzzled, obeyed as dutifully as she could and sat in one of the chairs placed on the ruffled carpet in the room. "Where are you from, Miss Alexandra?" questioned Ivy as she too sat.

"Just Cassandra," confirmed the Greek, "and I'm from Athens." Ivy's smile seemed to fade, but not for a genuine reason. "I see…So you are an Ottoman than? You don't look Ottoman." Cassandra shook her head quickly. "No, I'm not Ottoman. I'm from an older family. We still follow the old ways, the old beliefs, and we have closer ties to the ancient Greeks of old. We are not Ottoman, but they don't bother us as long as we don't bother them." Ivy contemplated briefly, scooting forward on the bunched blanket of her bed. "And, Cassandra, why do you want the shards destroyed?"

Cassandra Alexandra didn't answer this query right away, puzzling over it before she spoke, calculating each word in a more youthful manner. "I have to, you understand, because I can't let my sister do it." Ivy looked at her dumbly, which was a strange sight in the cold, perfect orbs of such a noble figure. "You're sister was going to destroy the shards I found?" she said confusedly. "No, she was going to destroy the sword and all the fragments, but she can't do it anymore." Ivy wasn't entirely sure, but she got the feeling that the very minute gleam in Cassandra's eye was a tear. "It's tearing her apart, trying to destroy it. If she goes out again, she won't come back…So I had to get to it before she did, just so she didn't have to carry all the burden herself…It would kill her, I know it would, I've seen what those damned things do to people."

Ivy laid as comforting a hand as she could on the girl's shoulder. "I've known something…something like that." Before she could continue, the tent flap burst open again, flooding in more desecrating light. Tepemkau ran inside, breathing harder than usual. Ivy's hand pulled back from Cassandra's shoulder as a nervous, involuntary reaction as she spun to her chief laborer. "Tepemkau, what is it?"

"Milady," he gasped through heated breaths, "I think we've hit something…and it's big." Ivy pulled Cassandra to her feet, who managed to wipe the single tear unnoticeably. "What, what did you hit?" Tepemkau took a flurry of deep breaths, staggering back towards the tent opening and beckoning for both the women to follow him. "You'd better come see, milady." Ivy, sighing very barely as she went, hurried after Tepemkau, wincing in annoyance as a sudden surging jolt of heat surrounded and filled her when she stepped from her pavilion and into the sand.

Ivy's camped site, littered with multicolored pavilions with their cloth walls billowing in desert winds, was only a fraction of the site that she'd been delegated by Baron Senicci. The rest was much more impressive, primarily to Cassandra, who hadn't seen it before. For vast stretching regions of the dunes and plane were ruins, headless columns, upturned statues, stony, Corinthian platforms mounted in the dust, all the grounds of some ancient structure. Some areas had but single groves of columns or pillars, while others held whole temples in their own right. The young Grecian female marveled at the site, the grandiose things she saw, but her attention soon turned to the growing throng of people that seemed to be flocking past her and those she followed, heading towards a more massive throng. Her thought train was again interrupted by Tepemkau's quick voice.

"It was a sand dune before. We were excavating on it. One of the men hit something, and suddenly the whole dune sinks into the ground. It wasn't a sand dune, ma'am, it was sand that had gathered over something. Something we've been standing on this whole time."

Cassandra nodded in understanding, though Ivy swiftly beat her to it, moving with more abruptness as she dodged around the swelling mass. There were more workers, barebacked or clothed in simple rags, herding in gregarious hordes over a mild depression in the sand. The workers and laborers moved aside as promptly as they could to allow Valentine through their ranks, but their eyes remained fixed upon some unseen thing. Ivy emerged from the densest part, with Tepemkau and Cassandra close behind, and stood stock still as she hovered over a great depression, a chasm-like ditch in the sand, a sunken crater in the whole of the excavation. Ivy, leaning forward, descended with careful treads and small steps down the ramp of sand, towards the great thing that had attracted so much attention, fixed into the face of a sandy cliff opposite her.

It was a grand block or door to nothing, huge and majestic even if it was mostly submerged in a sloping, dip of a ditch. It was great in every respect, made of six rectangular slabs stacked on top of each other in rows of three, each covered in dulled etchings of pictures. The thing must've been a whopping three hundred feet or upwards of that in height, looming over the gathered crowds as Ivy, Cassandra, and Tepemkau descended down the wooden building and digging platforms erected around the structure. The door was part of a hall, whose actual road was mounted at an angle going deeper into the sand below like a set of stairs in a tunnel that the door cordoned off. The sandstone was rimmed with a desert-colored substance with the hardness and icy coolness of metal, and worn away by long centuries of whipping winds and eddy gusts of the desert. On the door itself, or wall, or whatever it was, just above the middle slab in the bottom row, where three broad lines of text in different letterings, each a language unknown and carefully inscribed into the stone.

"By the gods!" Cassandra gasped, trying not to look as utterly astonished by the sheer hugeness of the structure looming over her, casting a monumental shadow over the sand now. "It is magnificent, isn't it?" said a new, cocky, male voice out of nowhere. From the sloping depths, flanked by workers, strode the short, balding, thin old Neapolitan archaeologist in Ivy's employment, scratching sand off his tawdry sequined vest, "A wonder of ancient architecture, something for the history books." He said, glowing with inane pride.

"Yes, it is incredible," Ivy agreed, with some subtle reluctance, "but it's in the way too." Osirni shot her a grim look from beneath a furrowed brow, his cloudy eyes focusing. "Regardless of that, it is a fantastic find." He proclaimed solidly, "I must take time to examine the lettering on the slab." Ivy held up her hand to halt him as he turned, talking silently to himself like a madman. "No time for that." She said, "We need to keep digging." Horrified and inflamed, Osirni rounded on her, to the slight surprise of the gathered laborers. "Once I translate this and chronicle it, we'll both be filthy rich with the sale value, Ivy!" he said loudly, trying to impress his idea upon her. As he had neared her, her hand shot out and grabbed him by the neck, yanking him close to her. "Osirni," she whispered coldly, "I don't give a damn about riches and you know it. You'll be paid in full, but not out of what we find. This thing has to be taken down." He tried to protest, very softly. "But-" she cut him off before completion of the first word. "No buts. You wouldn't even have this job if not for Baron Senicci, so be happy I haven't sent you packing already."

Osirni dutifully backed off, shrinking from Ivy as both Cassandra and Tepemkau hid satisfied smirks (Cassandra didn't even know why she was smirking, but she suspected it was because she had never seen a man of such stature shrivel up in the face of a female back in Greece). Tepemkau, wiping his face like a clean slate, stepped forward, proclaiming. "It's a door…we think." murmured Tepemkau, confirming the fact that Ivy and Cassandra had been thinking, "There are obvious openings, but none big enough for a person to fit through. Now that we've unearthed it, we can start using tools to open it, but it shall still take some days, since the slab is firmly set in place."

"That may not be necessary, sir." Said Cassandra, suddenly noticing that every pair of eyes (and some single eyes and patches) had turned fully to her, centering and focusing like the beaming ray of a spotlight, "I can read it." Ivy and Tepemkau looked at her quizzically, while Osirni just looked skeptical and misogynist. "What do you mean?" inquired Isabella Valentine. "One of the languages on the door I know." Replied the Greek, eliciting a shocked gasp from everyone, expect Tepemkau, who seemed to be utterly in the dark. "It's an old Greek dialect, ancient, but I've learnt it. I can read it."

"Well, for God's sake, woman, translate." Roared Osirni, advancing, but Ivy thrust and arm in his way, stopping him. "Yes, Cassandra, he's right. If you can read it, translate it. It might tell us how to open the door." The brisk Athenian moved quickly over to the central slab and looked up, her pupils shrinking to inspect the minute but decorative lettering, more blocky than the other etched fonts on the head of the door. "_'Upon the threshold of my door, set forth no light forevermore, for only one may me unlock, open sand and open rock. The palm of darkness, greed and sin, that is what shall go within. Sword-spawn: lay thy hand on me and I will reveal to thee secrets of a darker time, so told in this now ancient rhyme. Unlock my door, both foul and fair, but do not tarry in my lair. Death lives within, and doom, and fear. Abandon hope ye who enter here…'_"

There was momentary silence, and she resolved her conclusion by speaking. "And that's where it ends." Tepemkau shook his head suspiciously, looking with constant nervous looks at the door and slabs. "I don't like the sound of that, milady." Ivy responded in agreement. "Neither do I, Tepemkau, neither do I." The two of them moved closer, examining the passage that Cassandra Alexandra had read. "Eh, it's all drivel and nonsense to scare us off." Osirni growled in bellicose frustration, not helping the situation, "But how do we open the door?"

"I think I know how." murmured Ivy, her mind seeming to wander in a daze as she spoke, stepping forward. "The poem gives the answer." Osirni looked at her with more writhing skepticism, but she didn't notice. The Englishwoman edged forward, sand building up in her shoes as she lifted each foot, and neared that same slab. She lifted up her hand, as the whole crowd suddenly reverted into a ghostly, cemetery silence as her palm flattened gracefully and she pressed her right hand against the center of the block, just below the three bars of writing inscriptions. Suddenly, a faint, vague glow welled up around the silhouette of her fingers, blazoned like a heraldic device on the door. The glow reverberated swiftly, its heartbeat quickening as, with a sudden windy gust, all the sand and debris that had gathered in the niches of the slabs was blown away. The brick-like chunk which Ivy's hand was touching suddenly descended, melting away into the sand below, which enveloped it willingly. Now, in the rock, a long dark tunnel sat waiting.

"How did you do that?" said Tepemkau, breaking the steady silence with his awestruck utterance. "It's not important," shot back Isabella Valentine abruptly, "really. What is important is what's in there." Osirni, grinning like a cunning madman stepped past her, his eyes ablaze with megalomaniacal excitement. "You're right about that, at least." He yelped gleefully, "Let's see what's in there for the taking."

Before he could be stopped, the man was dashing headlong into the mystic darkness of the caving tunnel. Ivy, thinking fast, tried to halt him, yelling after, "Wait!" but it was too late. Osirni was inside, engulfed in the shadows. Before a second had passed, a horrible grotesquery of a noise burst from the shade, which sounded more like monster than man, and a spray of blood peppered the sand before Ivy's feet. She heard a thump, followed by rapid gnashing sounds and then…silence…She grimaced after, honestly hoping that she was hearing things, but the crimson specks beneath her didn't lie.

There was a delayed reaction, formed into a horrified gasp from the crowd around. Ivy shook her head, more disappointed than sad, and, curling her delicate fingers around the smooth hilt of her snake-sword, took a step forward towards the darkness. "What are you doing?" managed Tepemkau weakly, "You'll get killed!" Ivy didn't respond until a moment later, as she dangerously neared the ominous threshold. "I have to go in there," she said, "This darkness contains what I came here for. I will not ask any of you to come with me; it is my burden to carry."

"No, it's my burden!" Cassandra protested surprisingly, turning more heads as she grasped the sword at her side and hurried to the spot in the grounded sand alongside Ivy, "I'm coming with you!" Ivy looked at her, obviously irked, but her look of frustration gave way to a sort of acceptance. "If you insist, Miss Alexandra, but you come at your own risk. I cannot look out for you in there." Cassandra didn't even bother to nod, stepping in front of and past Ivy. "I know that. I can look out for myself."

Before the gathered laborers had even figured out the entirety of what was happening, Ivy and Cassandra where gone…

**…**

It was dark inside, very. Darkness, in all its cold trickery, clung to every wall, engulfing the corners in a black waft of flame like clouds of soot that had gathered there, defying the laws that bound them to the ground where they should be.

"Be ready, Cassandra," murmured Ivy softly, annunciating each word aptly as she moved through the sand, sliding her blade with a fluid flourish from its sheath and swing it to her side with a pronounced flourish, "whatever got Osirni probably wants to get us too." The Englishwoman felt oddly protective of this newcomer, seemingly an intelligent young girl, but with that aspect of defiant, almost childish naiveté. She looked back at Cassandra, who had unfurled her own blade, looking at Ivy. "I'm ready. I can handle myself, you know." Ivy scowled. Perhaps allowing a young girl to accompany her had not been a good idea, but she'd been thinking quickly at the time and her decision might have been brash and tempered with the suddenness of the situation. "Fine, just stay out my way, alri-"

Ivy leapt backward before the word was complete as something jagged and glinting with a wicked sense of purpose buzzed over her head, sweeping away the sand around in a flowing wave. Her sword was whipped out an up in a second's span and went towards the glint in the darkness, but it was gone and replaced by a second, swinging about vertically from another direction. Cassandra lunged and rolled with almost involuntary speed, diving swiftly beneath one of the razor-edged blades pierced the dusty air above her, clipping a smooth hair or two from her head neatly. She leapt up, bouncing on her toes nimbly, and raised her shield as another object came. The spinning, buzzing gleam collided with her rounded shield, the force of the spinning impact sending the young Greek back into the dust. She rolled to one side in the murk of the sand as a piercing weapon slashed down from the hall ceiling. Another something came at her from above, but it moved so quickly that she couldn't roll aside. She braced for impact.

All of a sudden, the whirring of that blade stopped, some snaky thing curled around it holding it in place. Cassandra propelled herself around the object, which was protesting as the snake held it. What Cassandra saw, though, was not a snake. It was Ivy's whip-sword, wrapped fully around the pendulum pike which had tried to skewer her. She didn't have time for thanks, unfortunately, as more razors berated her from the wall and floor. She parried the weaker blades, and managed to dodge the faster, more lethal ones, picking up massive, wafting plumes of dusty smoke that curled with aimless resolve through the pitch blackness, which was only lighted by swift shimmers from flying weapons in the air. She parried and swiped, feeling sudden, vibrating pangs as her sword, graceful and lithe, bashed into the speedily moving traps. Each time she struck her mark, the spinning of the unseen, nonhuman enemy would send her into a sudden shock, often stumbling backward but avoiding more slashes and hacks from all sides.

Meanwhile, Ivy's segmented snake-weapon, each separate section glowing with a faint, pulsating inner light, was flying and twirling like whirlwind, batting away everything aimed for her. With a gnashing crack, one of the shooting weapons chipped and shattered as her device swung around and slammed into it head on. The useless razor, no longer spinning, clattered noisily into the sand. _'One down' _though Ivy Valentine coolly (despite the heat) and wheeled around on her sharp, elevated heels, to slice right through another rotating disc that assaulted her. The snake-sword flailed with the strength of a mace as pikes stabbed down from high up, and Ivy cut each jagged tip from the pikes' staffs, making them no more than harmless sticks hanging down.

Cassandra continued fighting, trying to move forward as she kept half her gaze fixed on Ivy, who was dashing through the sand and sidestepping every weapon, trap, or device that tried to hinder her, cutting down a great many of them. In truth, Cassandra could barely see, listening to the incessant, irksome whir of the traps, the sound of crunching footsteps in soft sand, and the twinkle of anything before or behind. Taking more attacks with her shield, whose smooth, semispherical surface had been battered, dented, scraped, and scratched, Cassandra Alexandra lopped off the heads of more traps aimed at her and headed towards something that was vaguely reminiscent of light until…

She tumbled out of the slanted hall riddled with things that were designed solely to kill her and onto new, softer, lighter sand. Suddenly, there was light, blinding light, but only blinding because of its absence so shortly ago. Torches lined the walls, hung off of metal attachments that held them against the sandstone rock. Cassandra managed to push herself up from her knees, which she'd landed on, and looked around swiftly at warmer surroundings, breathing raggedly, panting, and sweating bullets. She pushed up with a wobbly leg and stood, shaking the sand from her tunic and hair. She caught sight of Ivy, standing erect and noble, more ceremonious as she smoothed her waistcoat and flicked her wrist, the snake in her hand becoming a sword again.

"How…how did you…do that?" said Cassandra weakly, her voice somewhat raspy after the run. Ivy's head cocked to see her follower; her eyes acutely narrow as the tails of her purple uniform blew in a nonexistent wind. She turned very slightly upon her heel, tapping her foot impatiently on the sand and beckoned Cassandra forward. "It is also unimportant. Come, there will doubtless be more things to hinder us." Cassandra looked indignant at being shrugged off so lightly, but nodded and dutifully followed the Englishwoman through the more lit hall.

Cassandra had already gotten a chance to contemplate the woman she'd sought, but never seen her prowess until this instant. She'd suspected that the female was simply a brat of nobility, a woman who had everything and did nothing. The swing of her blade and the promptness of her speech told the Greek otherwise as she followed, skipping along behind and looking out for more traps. She kept letting her focused eyes flit back to the platinum head of the woman, looking at the regal way she carried herself along and her resolute posture. As the two of them walked, they left the darkness far behind, Cassandra catching up to Ivy completely and scurrying in front of her, sword raised. They continued trudging along, winding through hallways, Cassandra inevitably looking back at Ivy nervously, and Ivy looking back with a poisonous glare that would turn Cassandra's head each time. The halls became narrower, and then wider, then narrower again, until they had shrunken into no more than tunnels. The impatient Greek, her eyes narrowing at the growing dimness, new and waiting, just up ahead, began to pick up the pace as the two of them suddenly emerged into a vast, stretching, broad room, whose opposite end could barely be seen. Its ceiling loomed high above, and the dim light of fiery torches that hung up and down along the walls, barely illuminated the murky corners of the cavernous chamber.  
"Don't be hasty, kid," growled Ivy from behind, "this place isn't just going to let us through it."

"I know," Cassandra snapped again, still bothered by the female's bossy nature, "I said I could look out for myself. Besides, there's nothing here anyway, just a whole lot of sand, and more sand. The first trap was just to scare us off." Ivy clicked her tongue skeptically. "Somehow, I think that's not the only thing in here we'll have to watch out for. Keep your eyes to the front and be careful."

Cassandra did exactly what she'd just been told not to do. As she walked, she spun, a defiant look on her gentle features, and was about to speak, when she felt something that wasn't sand beneath her feet. It was mushy and much softer than the tanned particles of the desert. Cassandra instinctively pulled her foot up, but could not extract her boot from the mess. She stumbled as she pulled, and her other foot fell forward, with an unsatisfying sound as both feet fell into the muck, which was apparently pulling down upon her as she pulled up. The light in the hall flickered, suddenly drowning the room in some notion of darkness again, though the wall torches still shone calmly. "What the-"

Ivy cut her off, grabbing her hand quickly before she staggered and fell face first into the material. "It's quicksand." She remarked, with more of a glib attitude towards the matter than Cassandra appreciated. The Greek pushed back, thinking to leap from the dilapidated muck, but only felt is grappling hold becoming firmer, pulling her deeper into the material below. "How do I get out?" she shot back at Ivy. The Englishwoman, coldly releasing her arm, took a few steps back into the normal sand, feeling the ground beneath her contemplatively with the acute heel of her shoe.

"Well, usually you don't get out." She responded, her voice simmering like frost upon glass. Cassandra looked confused at first, trying to turn around to face the woman she accompanied. "What do you mean? There must be a way! It's only sand, after all!" she protested violently, pointing her sword at Ivy as if to illustrate a point. To her surprise and dismay, Ivy laughed.

"Little one," she murmured, "You were helpful getting that door open, but your uses have run out. If I'd known you longer, I might find some compassion for you somewhere within me, but I cannot, since I find that it never pays to get attacked to anyone. So, I bid you a fond farewell."

With that icy remark, Ivy plowed forward suddenly, bashing Cassandra's side. The Greek slid down, shooting out her arm to brace the fall, but that had been what Ivy planned on. Sinking, Cassandra found herself suddenly constricted by quicksand all around her. She looked up angrily at Ivy, still bewildered by the woman's sudden attitude change, and watched as the silently chuckling female swung out her snake sword. The lopping, twirling, serpentine blade dove towards the side of the room, lacing around one of the torch mounts. The blade firmly wrapped around the staff of the iron hand that held the flaming branch of wood and pulled, retracting. Ivy flew over Cassandra, dancing through the air as her weapon unwound and swung over, with the utmost ease, to the next torch mount. Her body parallel to the ground, Ivy pulled herself in a semicircle across the room, its whole grand length, and to the other side, where she alighted nonchalantly and dusted off her waistcoat, its noble purple caked with sandy tan.

"It was nice meeting you, Miss Alexandra, but parting is, at this point, inevitable. Au revoir." Seeming rather pleased with herself as she flexed her wrist and reformed her segmented blade, Ivy headed off down the deep, dank, and oddly luminescent hall. Cassandra tried to yell after her, but she was gone in an instant, leaving Cassandra in her predicament.

Cassandra again tried to look up, her gaze following Ivy's back until her visage faded. She struggled madly, still holding sword and shield, to extract herself, but could not. The hand that held her sword had been used to 'cushion her fall' so it was completely submerged and being drawn further in. She yanked, wrenching her arm and wrist up, but the sudden boat of unwieldy strength caused her to fall, the quicksand engulfing her side and grabbing like a groping hand onto her shield arm. And still it drew her in, wrapping around her feet until they were submerged too. She felt the lukewarm, gelatinous stuff seeping into her boots and outfits. She squirmed madly as her waist was pulled in, and she felt that there was no floor beneath the sand, only endless muck devouring her as a hungry animal would, its gargantuan maw lapping over her. Soon, it had drawn her in up to her shoulders, eating both arms and pulling her sword away from her as she tried to retrieve it from the quicksand obstruction. It pulled her deeper, at a faster rate, and she craned her head up to avoid it, but as she thrashed it continued pulling down, looming up over her head. She coughed and spluttered as the substance tried to fill her form, flooding into her mouth and nose and forcing her to shut her eyes tightly. Her sword was gone, her shield barely clutched beneath the surface, and still the quicksand forced her further into it. She searched around for something; anything that could get her out.

Though her eyes were closed, they lit up as her flailing hand, feeling only goo, felt that warm, smooth surface of something concealed in her tunic. It was the mysterious shard she had recovered not long ago, glowing soft crimson, a fragment of the dark blade Cassandra sought. She didn't know how it could help, but she was sure that, somehow, it could, since its light in the shady, green-tinted darkness was so oddly refreshing. She closed her fingers as best she could around the shard, feeling its energy suddenly pulsing through her veins, and immediately felt the relief of a great weight lifted. The quicksand seemed to ease up around her, becoming watered down and more murky than mucky. She was able to move more freely as she held the chipped but polished, gleaming stone and kicked with her legs, paddling and propelling herself to the surface. She hit that surface, and even the watery sand seemed to melt away, spitting out the remaining quicksand, and still thrashing meagerly, she made her way up, swimming through the residue. She didn't stop to search for her sword as she swam to the other end of the room and clawed her way onto dry sand.

On the harder earth, she shook herself off more boorishly, flapping her arms in an almost idiotic fashion to expedite the quicksand from their sleeves. She ran a hand across her face and through her stuck-together strands of blond hair. She panted for a minute, scratching the drying particles off of her dulled shield and letting it hang on her arm, which hung just as limp on her arm. Taking a last, full breath, Cassandra, still drying off, stalked with a murderous fire in her eyes down the narrowed hallway which Ivy had taken. She looked furious, her muddy face fixed in a scowl. That blasted woman would've left her for dead! Cassandra had, initially, been under the impression that this Isabella Valentine was at least somewhat amicable. This betrayal of trust so suddenly was more than Cassandra was used to, so it had taken her very aback. Now, she merely wanted to find out why it had been done.

Strangely, Cassandra Alexandra found that she was being steadily dried off by a heat that surrounded her. She figured it had come from the glowing torches, but it was now becoming more intense as she headed through the maze of slim hallways. The first slight beads of sweat had formed on her forehead. She wiped it again, kneading her brow mercilessly as her head throbbed without end, her legs wobbling in the tiring heat. The searing swell of high temperature that had flooded the hall was beginning to become unbearable as the girl staggered on, for many minutes, as the rooms became lighter and a red and gold hue filled the air and littered the walls. At long last, her drooping head turned down, Cassandra Alexandra staggered through the narrowest of the corridors she'd come to, sliding through its length, and hobbled out into a great room, her eyes turning up and widening in horror!

"By the gods…Tartarus."


	14. The Japanese Incursion

Reviewers: _Serapis__: _Thanks for the praise. I plan to get on with every cliffhanger. Since no chapter ever follows the last, every chapter is technically a cliffhanger. My way of keeping you people reading. Cookie for you for knowing who Oda is. He'll be expanded on in this chapter. _Yithril__: _I know that is my problem. I get carried away with description because I'm a pompous writer. Also, my work reeks of 'purple prose' so beware. Thanks for encouragement and pointers, ce'st helpful muchly. _DemonGod86:_ If you read more, and review more, I guess I'd happily critique yours. I've played WC enough to know of it. Bribery always works, I suppose. All others, much thanks and gratitude. I think this is my longest chapter yet, so, happy trails.

Disclaimer: Don't own SC2, don't own stuff. Korea owns the city of Pusan. I own nothing sobs

**Chapter XIII – The Japanese Incursion**

"Archers, show the foreign devils Korean hospitality."

From the walls, windows, crenellations, and every opening in the garrison that rimmed the beachhead, out spurted an endless wave of shafts, arrows hurtled through the air and up into the sky. The wave rained down with ruthless precision on the ships that had hit the elevated beach. Thousands of jagged arrows slammed into the sand, thwacked into the wooden ships, and pierced the thick armor of the Japanese soldiers. Left and right, soldiers and samurai staggered and flipped over ship railing, splashing down into the shallow water below as the rest began to pour off the sides of their vessels and into the wispy sand and haze of dust. The armored and unarmored warriors sped up the dusty beach, enveloped quickly in a sand shroud as Yunsung looked out upon them. He heard the ghastly gnashing noise and agonized groans as blinded men ran head long onto the erected spikes jutting out of the slope, but most managed to avoid the wall of wooden spears and dove onward towards the waiting garrison walls.

More arrows poured down as Hwang and Yunsung watched in awe. The practical legions of armored troops scattered forward, scurrying like so many tiny ants beneath them. From the ships behind, which were massing together on the shoreline, more armored men leapt off under the cover of arrow volleys whizzing from the vessels' sides. The exchange of arrows from each side, Korean and Japanese, found some targets. Though the beach was soon littered with riddled corpses, men fell continually from the ramparts of the garrison, through windows from which they'd been firing, and off the high, overlooking walls, plummeting into the sandy wasteland below them as the Japanese surged across the dipping plane.

They continued closing the distance, more slowly as their ranks were downed, but still steadily. The sand beneath them crunched and quavered spattered with the prints of their sandaled feet and off their blood that sprayed down, reddening the solid, particular sand. Soon, arrows in torrential gusts flew from the ships, and explosions of powdery smoke close behind. The wood and thickly matted mortar of the fortress wrinkled and trembled weakly when the chorus of spherical bolts slammed into it. Men fell from the highest heights of the ramparts and the crenellated windows not far above, until the land directly in front of the garrison was littered with Korean corpses. And still, the Japanese, their helmets' and armored color dulled by ageless wind and sandy breezes, surged upward, downward, and zigzagged like mad cattle in a bladed herd roaring to the garrison, the endless hail behind them acting as a wavering back-up which only served to keep down the Korean heads at the top of the garrison top. This was soon proved unsuccessful, as the archers and others from above continued to pelt the oncoming attackers with everything they had. Far below, the Yari Spearmen of the foreigners felt rocks and chunks of debris ricocheting harmlessly off them after a quick plummet from the elevated ramparts, but they dared not look up.

It was all in vain, though, for both sides. The Japanese archers had not deterred enough of the Koreans, but the Koreans had not deterred enough of the Japanese in turn. The foreign attackers were mere feet from the walls and main door, bolted with solid iron, when the defensive level of the garrison was upped a notch or three. Down in murderous waves the rain came, but still the spearmen and swordsmen came, colliding with the walls and beating their weapons against it, hoping to find weak spots. They were left standing and trying to get in without a lifeline as death poured down, but the wooden walls began to fail, chips and splinters flying off, mortar being dislodged. Burly men rammed the door, some tried miserably to scale the wall, while others simply sought some sort of shelter from the hail of debris. At long last, the Japanese were reinforced…and then again reinforced…and again, as hordes of new troops, fresh are raring to go, leapt from their vessels on the coast and joined the besieging mass. It was too much for the garrison, though its soldiers kept up the fight from above. Slightly within, the defenders rushed behind the nearly broken door of their fort, ramming against it too to prevent it from being brought down from outside, but their might could not stand. The Japanese pressed their firearms against the door, blasting through it and blowing great holes in the barricade, killing and injuring many of those on the opposite side.

At last, they had almost broken through. Inside, most men with any melee weapons in the garrison rushed to the hallway behind the door, bracing for the attack. The door wobbled, quavered, shook, trembled, quaked, and finally fell, broken and mangled, useless.

The attackers, not hesitating, ran inside.

**…**

"C'mon, Yun, we've gotta go!" exclaimed Hwang suddenly, his hand latching onto Yun's shoulder.

The boy had been lost in reverie of his own, staring down wistfully, shocked and appalled, at the field of battle some levels down. He'd been leaning against the crenellated wall, watching out for stray gunfire, or gunfire aimed at him, and looking with wide, bewildered eyes and the countless bodies of the slain, his mouth hanging slack below his upper jaw. Now, the swift jerk to his furry vest shoulder interrupted him. He turned to Hwang, about to speak, but the man suddenly dove down, taking Yun with him onto the floor just as a crashing sound came from behind him. Something whizzed past Yun's ear, followed by another something. Yun hit the floor, grabbing at his ear. He felt something wet, and quickly looked at his hand. A fine red substance had coalesced there, but Yun felt nothing. He turned to look at the wall he'd been leaning against, and saw two gaping holes in it. He continued staring dumbly as Hwang dragged him carefully to his feet.

"You alright, Yun?" he said, half stern and half tender. Yun, his lower lip actually quivering very slightly, turned to Hwang and nodded, staring at the blood secreted on his open, trembling palm. Before he could inspect it longer, he was being tugged along again. He noticed, only as an afterthought, that Admiral Lee Sun Shin had disappeared from the railing beside them both, but he'd somehow expected that. He continued running (or jogging foolishly backward through the garrison with Hwang Sung Kyung pulling him). His bloodied hand went to White Storm, the reflecting blade that hung at his side, swinging back and forth. He felt the warmth of his drying blood upon the icy sleekness of the blade's hilt and shuddered inwardly. He'd felt blood before; blood of several men, but never his own. This was new to him, and one of the most horrible things he'd ever experienced. Today, as he knew with an inner dismay, he would kill many men. He had always wanted to kill the enemies of his people, but this day he did not want to.

"We have to fight them, Yun! They're breaching the garrison!" shouted Hwang, over the din and chaos created by all the frantically dispersed soldiers around them, running every which way. His voice was barely heard, but Hong Yunsung heard it clearly enough, as the echoing voice of unaccustomed arrogance rang in his head, resounding like a metallic clash of thunder or weaponry. He managed to turn, wrenching his arm away from Hwang, to which the other man did not even react, and continued running through a maze of hallways, gliding swiftly down ladders and stairs, until the messy mass of people became even more cramped and packed. Glinting metal could be seen above every head, spears, zanbatou, and machetes waving, brandished in the air as reinforcing troops neared the broken down door to the garrison. Hwang and Yun, both yanking their weapons from their swinging scabbards, zipped through the rolling waves of troops, working their way towards the hallway were hand-to-hand combat had begun.

Hong Yunsung, throughout all of this, could barely see. His line of vision was continually blocked by all of the commotion He continued looking forward, after he'd unsheathed White Storm, and held his blade high in front of him, trying to tell friend from foe. Suddenly, and finally, he saw someone that he recognized that was not Hwang; a man standing not far off, robed regally, with his noble cloak swinging as he twirled with his military blade whistling through the air. It was Admiral Lee, and the sight of the older man of such stature swinging his sword and cutting down the enemy brought a hopeful light to the darkness that had clouded Yunsung's mind and heart. He tried, though with little success, to plow forward towards the admiral and the men at the front lines. He wheeled his blade up into the air, suddenly brimming with determination, and dove into the fray behind Hwang.

There were men everywhere, and most of them enemies, so Yun began to see how many of them he could kill. Once he singled out the generic color that the Japanese troops were wearing on their uniforms, he ran, ducking and dodging, towards them. The first didn't even see him coming and he drove his blade clean through the man's neck. He looked up, to see another soldier bearing a curved spear lunging. He used the still-standing body of the dead soldier as a shield, grabbing his armor with sweaty fingers and hauling him in front of himself, allowing the spear of the new opponent to slash harmlessly through the corpse. As the Japanese soldier tried to extract his spear, Yun hopped over the fallen carcass and speared the hapless spearman in the chest twice. He staggered back, but Yun grabbed his pulse-less throat as he crumpled and pulled him sideways, throwing him onto the ground towards two more soldiers flying at him. One of them leapt over the rolling body, but the other was tripped by it. Yun jumped up, swinging each leg up. One leg caught the jumping soldier in the gut and sent him sprawling beneath the torrent of soldiers, while the other foot went for the tripping man's face, jabbing his eye and nose. Clutching his bleeding face, the soldier knelt. Yun land and drove his sword through the man's side, coming out in his chest and opening a fountain of blood there. With a final groan, the body fell like a rock and landed with a thud.

Yunsung, barely catching the sight of Hwang, which was instantly blocked by another large, armored man galumphing towards him oafishly, spun on his heel and sent his foot back at the larger Japanese swordsman. The back of Yunsung's leg struck the man's chest, he stumbled, and Yunsung tore forward. He planted White Storm neatly in the man's face, spurting a quick burst of gules, and unsheathed it from its fleshy scabbard after less than a second, watching the corpse crumble like an unused puppet. He turned to see three more figures and had to back step nimbly as three different blades, two swords and a spear, lashed out at him. He grinned, surprisingly, and dove, spinning in mid air, his body parallel to the ground. He managed to flip himself over the three men and, as he landed, he dragged White Storm from the top of the middle man's head to his waist, cloving him almost in two. The man, covered in his own blood, slumped forward, and the other two turned. Yunsung, before he could react, felt one of the swords clip his leg, opening the flesh above the knee. He grunted and his fist flew out, crunching into the offending soldier's face. Suddenly, the iron hilt of another sword struck his cheek, snapping his neck around. He tasted blood on his lips and, growling, he drove White Storm into the last man's chest. Than, taking his hand off the hilt, he jumped and kicked, pressing his heel against the pommel of the sword hard and driving it deep into the armor and flesh of his opponent. Not making a sound, but twitching violently, the man fell, and Yunsung plucked White Storm from his body.

Yun looked around, panting, and wiped the blood that had been dripping from his chin with a dirtied sleeve. There was no one left, no one in the hall! Admiral Lee, almost entirely unscathed except for the slash marks on his uniform, stood near the swinging door. Hwang Sung Kyung, with one arm hanging limp and bloodied at his side, also panting heavily, stood near Yun. The floor was no longer present, for the only floor that the hallway now had was that of bodies, Korean and Japanese. Yun could not take a step without putting his foot upon a corpse, which disgusted him. He tried to ignore the terrible silence, limping forward and looking around warily. _'Why are they not coming?' _he thought nervously, _'Why?'_

His question was answered by a new silhouette that appeared in the open doorway, much less imposing than a wave of men. It was just one shadow that fell on the carpet of limp carcasses, one man that strode inside. He was somewhat concealed by the shadows of the hall, whose light had faded, but Yunsung could still see him clearly. He was a gruffer man, but looked young despite his probable age. He had a short black beard and stubbly chin, with his hair bound back into the topknot of the Japanese warriors. He wore the shingling of the foreign samurai or ronin and carried a long sword at his side. Though Yun did not know this man, it seemed strangely clear that Admiral Lee did. He was something of a legend, unbeknownst to Yunsung, a single driving force, the One Man Army.

"Very good," said the man, clapping his hands in a mocking fashion, "very good indeed."

"We have won, foreign scum," snarled Hwang venomously, "Leave now and take your wretched dignity."

"Won?" the Japanese man laughed, with more than a little incredulousness in his voice, "You've hardly hit the surface, lad. You've defeated the first wave, at the cost of many of your men. You still have three waves to contend with, but that is unimportant. General Oda shall not need those reinforcements, for he knows that I can take care of all those remaining in this garrison with ease. So, let us get this over with, hmm? Which one of you would like to feel the sting of my blade through them first?" Yun tried to hide the arrogance that would've taken hold of him by now and stepped forward, his fingers tightening harshly on the hilt of White Storm. But, before he issued his own challenge, he was cut off.

"I will fight you, Heishiro Mitsurugi!" cried Admiral Lee, calling out the man by name. The ronin, name known at last, turned fully to face the Admiral. In a flash, his hand held a glinting katana firmly, upheld, and his other hand grasped the hilt below the first. His deep, dark eyes, met Lee's softer ones as Hwang quickly grabbed Yun and pulled him back forcefully, causing the weary boy to stagger. Yunsung quickly spun towards Hwang, pushing the older man's hand from his shoulder and protesting loudly. "Hwang, we can't just let Admiral Lee fight alone! We should help him!"

"Quiet, Yun. This is part of war, as I told you before. We must not get in the way."

Though he was confused, Yun nodded and turned, moving back towards the opposite wall with White Storm at the ready. The two Koreans looked to their commander as he stood, facing off with the foreign warrior. The two opponents now had their weapons out, held steady and still in their hands. Admiral Lee, taking strange initiative, executed a respectful bow, which was responded to with the same action from his enemy. Still, Yunsung did not entirely understand these customs, but he watched anyway, rooting silently for Lee. As he prepared himself mentally, he saw the feet of the fighters moving, and they were both in the air as he watched.

They flew forward, one with the tails of a tattered robe behind and the other with the fringes of his armor trailing off of him like the tail of a fiery comet. They seemed to strike at the center of the hall, causing a momentary pause and ripple in the fabric of the moment, before each warrior bounced back, skidding through the mass of bodies and sending useless corpses scattering across the room. Mitsurugi was the first up, pushing off from the floor with his sandaled feet, and he leapt high into the air with his katana up. Lee pulled up his curved sword, grasping the elongated hilt with each, white-knuckled hand and holding as one would a staff for blocking. The blades collided again, resounding and vibrating, as the force of the clash sent each a step or two backwards and breathing hard as they ran in opposite directions to each side.

Their swords clashed again, the sound of metal on metal singing in a symphonic beat as each blade soared, cutting the air as it stabbed and slashed at the other, trying to find something to strike. They ended up backing to and fro, swirling in a deadly dance across the floor of lifeless husks, and batting at each other madly. Every so often, one man would find the other's blood, often eliciting a noticeable wince from Yun, who still cheered mentally for Lee Sun Shin. Mitsurugi's katana clipped Lee's chest, slitting his uniform open and drawing a narrow line of blood. Lee dragged his blade down the length of Mitsurugi's arm, bursting open the cloth and armor there and sending a neat spray of blood into the air, though the ronin didn't seem to notice as he continued doggedly. His blade, searching like a predator for prey, found new marks and made more. Lee's arm was slashed at the shoulder, drawing little red from the vague, slithering gash, but the jab into his gut lapped up a spurt where his flesh was punctured. The admiral, blood dribbling from his mouth and flaring nostrils, began to slow his pace as Mitsurugi quickened his own. Yun, watching, looked more ruefully at the fight, bringing up a foot to move forward, but Hwang again held him back, though the task was now made harder by the dedicated youth.

Still they fought, like men possessed, bashing away at each other. Their blades sung in the cold air, let in through the opening at the end of the hall, and they slashed the walls and floor as they leapt about, spinning, whirling, jumping, tumbling, diving, executing perfect thrusts and equally perfect deflections that dwarfed anything Yun could remember doing. Lee flipped back, out of Mitsurugi's range, a movement unexpected from a man of his age. The admiral landed, feet spread, blade clasped vertically before his eyes, and lunged, pulling the blade back. It came down, slicing the skin from Mitsurugi's arm neatly as he sidestepped and spun, all in one fluid motion, and swerved fully. The hilt of his katana bashed into Lee's side and back, sending him forward, but the Korean caught himself with his right foot and jabbed up with his left, cudgeling Mitsurugi with his heel in the jaw. The bleeding foreigner staggered, but leapt back as Admiral Lee spun and dove, swiping diagonally at the bewildered ronin. Mitsurugi, after dodging, took his chance. While Lee's blade was out to the side, Mitsurugi ducked and, as Lee soared over him, drove himself up. The mercenary's fist, with the metal hilt in it, struck Lee in the gut and he flew up into the air. As he came down, Mitsurugi swung his foot up in a mighty ax kick, arching it through the air, and caught Lee in the neck. The admiral thudded to the ground, rolling onto his back, and tried to spring up, but he was now very weakened.

Yun, his eyes wide with confusion and concern, tried to rush forward to his injured commander, but again Hwang, who looked equally displeased with the situation, held him back, grasping his shoulder with an iron hand. Yun tried madly to break free as Mitsurugi, dusting himself off as if nothing had happened but a minor inconvenience, walked over to the wrenching body of Admiral Lee Sun Shin, which lay half limp upon the floor, and raised his katana. The young, fire-haired Korean jerked and forced his way from Hwang's grip and began to sprint, but Hwang, not even entirely sure what he was doing, tackled Yunsung to the ground and hauled him back. "This is their fight!" he cried, "You shall have yours!"

"No!" Yun said, loudly this time, "He'll kill him! He'll be killed, Hwang!"

"I…I know."

Confused, saddened, and lost, Yun fell from Hwang's grip to the floor, looking up at his former tutor and friend as if he didn't know him anymore. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Slowly, his neck and head turned. Mitsurugi stood over Lee, his katana up vertically. Yun's eyes closed and he looked away as the blade fell, spearing the man who he'd been told such glorious tales about and rending the last breath from him. Slowly, his eyes opened, eyelids peeling apart reluctantly, and he looked at the ronin who now stood over the motionless body of Admiral Lee Sun Shin. The Korean staggered to his feet, looking at the body, then at the mercenary, then at Hwang, than at his enemy again.

"He put up a good fight," said Mitsurugi glibly, scratching his injured shoulder, "but not good enough."

He looked, with a stern expression, at the young Korean boy, his eyebrow cocking, and he turned, sheathing his bloody blade. "I don't have to kill you, you know." He murmured icily, breaking the silence. "Even though I do not usually allow my enemies to escape, I would not need to slay you if you left now. I'll probably kill you another day. Take your leader and bury him however you wish, for I have no need of him. Tell your people that the One Man Army has come, and that they should leave this land for us. Go, and you shall not be followed."

Yun's emotionless face turned into a glare as he looked angrily at the ronin, but Hwang steadied him and walked past him, towards the enemy. "Though I shall tell my people no such thing," he said, "I thank you for your honorable actions. But, Heishiro Mitsurugi, know this. The next time I see you, you shall die. This I swear upon my father, and his, and all my ancestors. Hold your next days dearly, ronin, for they shall be your last."

"Boy, I've gotten more of those threats than I've bothered to count. Take your general and get out."

His eyes narrowing grimly, Hwang knelt beside the body of Lee. He was about to haul up the body, but decided against it. As the warrior he was, Admiral Lee would want to remain where he fell, a high water mark upon the field of battle. So, with quivering, sweat-soaked hands, caked with dry red, Hwang gripped the spiraling, metallic hilt of he finely crafted blade, with his name etched into the length of the sword, and drew it up. He examined it, using the fringes of his uniform to swab the crimson residue from its edges, and stuck it in his belt. He got up, bowing unnoticeably to the dead commander, and turned, taking Yun, who was still confused beyond reason, by the arm, and taking him out of the hall. Behind, Mitsurugi chuckled quietly as he walked through the river of death, searching for the last signs of life in the garrison.

**…**

Meanwhile, Taki was equally busy, though she considered her plight much less dire. She had escaped from situations like this time and time again. At first she tried all the simple methods, not expecting any actual way out. She simply tested the strength of the bonds that held her, but it was foolish to think that her captors would be so stupid. After weighing the strength of her restraints, she searched for other methods. She could've somehow convinced a guard to free her, but there were no guards, which was even more puzzling. She looked around, scanning the dim room. The sounds of intense commotion from outside had died down, and were now replaced by an arctic silence. Warily, Taki continued toying with escape routes until, to her surprise, the door of the holding cell swung open on its hinges.

"Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here." Grinned Heishiro Mitsurugi, clad in rough battle armor as she strode into the room, his hand moving slowly to the katana at his side as he smirked victoriously. "Heishiro!" gasped Taki back, "What are you-"

"What do you think I'm doing here?" he cut her off angrily, "Most of the ships on the attack front belong to the Urakami Navy of the Mori Clan, my old clan. When they went on the offensive against the gaijin, I felt obligated to come along for the ride. The spoils will surely be great…" he paused, his grin widening with a satisfied rumble in his throat as he paced towards Taki, gracefully unsheathing his sword and letting it hang in his grip on the right side. Slowly, he bent down, nearing the restrained ninja. His speech was softer as he looked into her eyes, "Even though, I think I've just found the best treasure of all. I didn't expect to find you, of all people, captured by the garlic eaters, but I guess it's just better for me, isn't it?"

"I don't want to have to hurt you, Heishiro." Snapped Taki, trying to look as nonchalant as possible as she struggled madly against her bonds. This was most definitely not how she wanted to die. She searched mentally for another way out, but found none at the moment. She had only one choice, and she didn't like it. She would have to stall. "You, hurt me?" Mitsurugi's cocky voice interrupted her thought train, "I'm not the one tied to a pole!"

"Don't underestimate me, mercenary." snarled Taki. As she spoke, she continued working away at the ropes until she felt a cracked section in the column she was tied to. Almost dislocating her bruised shoulder, she pulled a splintered off a sliver of wood from the pole, curled her fingers around it quickly, hiding it from view, and began to saw away at the bulky cords. "I wouldn't dare." Responded Mitsurugi, swinging his katana nimbly for practice, "I've know you too long, Taki, and I'm getting awfully tired of having to think about that fact. So, just to get it off my chest, I think I'll kill you right now and get this all over with." Taki, smiling at the mercenary to distract his attention, spoke softly. "I would've expected better from you, Heishiro Mitsurugi." Mitsurugi's eyebrow raised, but he dismissed this, still twirling the katana clutched in his firm hand, flipping it about in his grasp to exercise the blade. "Hey, I would fight you fair and square, but I'm not in the mood right now, sorry." Taki's grin faded. The ropes were almost loose enough to break free; she just needed to stall a little longer.

Mitsurugi stopped right in front of her and knelt further towards her level, his smiling face suddenly an inch from her own bloodied one. She felt his breath on her and flinched, only giving another reason for the expansion of Mitsurugi's grin. "We've fought many times, you and me. If not a battle on the battlefield than in the mind of one or the other, since ours is a conflict of more than blades and insults, Taki-sama. But, I suppose all good things do come to an end, though this suddenness is far beyond my tastes in suspense. There is no more challenge, which is displeasing, but it will have to do. After victory and defeat by your hands, ninja, I'm going to relish killing you. I'm sure I'll be missing something without you around, around to shoot scathing remarks at me and always elude my grasp, but you'll be missing a lot more…your head, for example, along with a few other things I'll be taking as souvenirs."

The ronin, his face plastered into a solemn expression, his fingers curled readily around the hilt of hi blade, Shishi-Oh…

His moment was interrupted by footsteps, loud footsteps, behind him. "Ah, Mitsurugi," proclaimed a voice, "Taken a prize, have we?"

Heishiro Mitsurugi turned swiftly, straitening his form quickly, and Taki looked up. Walking into the room, flanked by two heavily armored guards, was a man who seemed far too old to be in battle at all. He wore a helmet, bronzed and shining, upon his head, with a topknot of hair slipped through the top revealing long strands of jet black dappled with aging grey and white. The man's hands were on that helmet, and removed it slowly, revealing a pale face and a long, uncut beard that dangled across his ridged breastplate and shingles of plate armor. He had a thick brow, and eyebrows furrowed. His skin was somewhat wrinkled, adding to his wizened but grizzly appearance, though he looked of noble upbringing. His eyes were dark, the color of Mitsurugi's, but darker and more foreboding, and the edges of his beard were neatly trimmed. He wore armor resembling that of the ronin, but far more flashy. It was ebony black, deep and flawlessly colored, with many iron plates and rivets to hold it together. Finely embroidered cloth lay beneath the layers of armor and a smooth robe hung down to his knees. Great epaulets and numerous decorations were hung upon him, indicating his status.

"Oda-chan," said Mitsurugi, bowing respectfully, "the day is won. We are victorious here."

General Oda Nobunaga, grinning youthfully to himself, waved Mitsurugi off, "No, not yet. Victory has not come in its entirety." Mitsurugi nodded, somewhat incredulous, and backed out of the way as Nobunaga, still grinning with a strange twinkle in his narrowed eyes, moved towards the bound ninja. "So, this is Taki of the Fu-Ma." boasted Oda to no one, even though there were enough people in the room to hear him, "This is the oni hunter, the demon slayer, the legend. Do you know that tales of your exploits are boundless back home, especially after you left the country? The Samurai, the Ninja, the mercenaries, the military, all talk of you as some sort of ghost, a shadow, impossible to see or hear. And here you are, ninja of ninjas, subdued and capture by a band of millet farmers. You do not do justice to the stories, but I suppose stories are overrated, don't you agree?"

"Baka!" spat Taki, "You know nothing of me, so don't assume you know!"

"Heishiro has told me more than enough, whore of the Fu-Ma," said Oda Nobunaga, filled with a frustratingly solid confidence as he leaned down again, "and I trust his word over even yours." Oddly, Taki found his breath to be much more caustic than Mitsurugi's. Suddenly, very much so for her, she felt a hand on her cheek, ice cold and rough skinned, as if he wore armor upon his hand even though there was none. She almost forgot about cutting away the ropes in her sudden hurry to get away from his touch. She flinched openly, but Oda persisted.

"He told me…that you were beautiful" Oda whispered, "…But that was the one thing I did not believe…until now."

"Get away from me!" she roared, wheeling her foot around nimbly beneath him. Though she had clearly aimed at his manhood, for apparent reasons, her foot only collided with his gut, which was still very painful. Oda, growling murderously, staggered backward, but before Taki could even move another inch, there were three glinting blades hovering just beside her throat in every direction. Having taught herself to be perfectly still, that was exactly what she did, knowing that the slightest movement might result in someone opening her throat. Oda, actually smiling despite the hand he now had fixed against his injured spot, pushed through the three, waving them off, beginning to laugh, which annoyed Taki to no end. "Oh, so you have your morals after all. How quaint. And all this time I thought you were just a miserable wench for a pack of prepubescent ninja trainees. Apparently, I might have underestimated you," he said through a raspy cackle, "but I doubt it. Anyone defeated by garlic eaters is no legend, not by a long shot."

"I wasn't defeated by garlic eaters" shouted Taki, getting very irked that everyone was suddenly making assumptions about her power level. Usually, she would've just sat where she was and been silent, but this lord was simply so much more painful to be around. Oda turned to her, a look of quizzical intrigue on his face. After a long pause, Taki continued. "…It was a ninja…One of the Fu-Ma ninjas…in your employment, no doubt." Oda's face remained neatly slated as she spoke, unemotional in every respect as his right eyebrow elevated. "Hidosu? We found him dead on the road, how could he have defeated you."

"You sent him to kill me, didn't you!" growled the ninja, suddenly beginning to piece together what had actually happened. But, shattering her concentration in thought, Oda shook his bearded head sadly. "No, I sent him to kill the gaijin boy who you were following. We thought both he and the other ninja I sent had failed in their duties…" He paused, his face twisting into a scowl, "You….you protected that little whelp from them! Traitor!" Taki felt the back of Oda's hand driven across her face, which whipped sideways. She felt blood on her lips, but turned and spat it right back at Oda. Growling furiously, Oda's hand flew forward, his wrenching fingers closing around Taki's throat and hauling her up the length of the pole. "Miserable bitch, you've betrayed Japan enough! Do you know how much is on your head now? How many deaths? How many rewards? The combined bounty on you of the Fu-Ma and the Imperial Army is enough to make any man a lord! You're no more than a wanted criminal now, and a traitor, a-"

"You're the traitor here, Oda. I've heard more tales of you than you of me. Backstabber and turncoat, that's what you are, a sniveling errand boy who killed so many people that there was no one left to oppose you when you became a lord. The name of the Samurai, as vile as it is, should not be pinned on you, for it would degrade every other. You call me a traitor when you've killed more of your own people than you have your enemies!"

Taki's tirade was interrupted now by a clenched fist in her jaw, which snapped her head the other side, bleeding profusely at mouth and nose. Despite feeling a merciless lance of pain working its way through her, Taki managed to turn back to Oda, who was panting angrily and wiping Taki's blood off his hand on the cloth fringes beneath his heavy armor. "At first, ninja," he said as coolly as possible, "I thought I'd just kill you here and now, along with any other gaijin who are taken prisoner, but I see that there is more to be gained keeping you alive. Let us see who is willing to bid the highest for you, let us see which of the many wronged by you will pay the most to see you tortured and killed in the same cold blood that you killed their brethren in." He leaned down, his bristling beard an inch from her face as he whispered in here ear. "For the rest of your time in this land, I will make your life a living hell. You'll be an example of why no one should betray the glorious cause. I will show your broken body to my troops to boost morale and I will give you to them alive. You have made a very dangerous enemy today." With that, Oda stood to his full height, towering over the sitting ninja, and spun, walking towards the door. "Come," he said to the two guards, but not as much Mitsurugi, "The garrison must be fully secured."

"Lord Nobunaga, what of this one?" said Mitsurugi, holding his katana at the ready as he walked towards Oda. Nobunaga spun again, his icy gaze halting Mitsurugi in his tracks. "Do what you want with her," he said, his voice holding a single, immobile pitch, "But do not slay her yet. I need her for other things, you shall see. Until that time comes, she's all yours." Then, leaving the whole room very unsettled, Oda Nobunaga and his guards left with a dignified flourish, leaving an ominous silence behind. Mitsurugi's breathing slowed as the men and the general went out, and his face, eyes aglow, turned with a furious glint towards Taki as he began lifting his shimmering katana. Taki, taken aback by the whole incident, swiftly resumed toying with her restraints as she realized that time had nearly run out. "You sure you don't want one more battle, for old time's sake?" she looked up, with what resembled a pleading look on her face. It was, of course, an act, and Mitsurugi saw right through it, chuckling menacingly as he advanced, raising the katana to the level of Taki's throat.

"Nope, I'm pretty sure I know what I'm doing." He nodded grimly, looking away, "Have fun in hell, ninja."

"You first."

It was perfectly timed, or would've been had Mitsurugi not been ready. The last rope holding Taki in place was severed and, whirling the jagged wooden splinter about in her hand, she rolled beneath the mercenary's blade, throwing the bonds away and wheeling around, sending the splinter of a weapon at her foe. She crashed the jagged wooden blade into his side, but even with her bare might behind it, the simple shaft did not pierce his armor. Laughing, the ronin spun, the solid hilt of his katana crashing into Taki's jaw. The ninja careened back, sliding across the floor and clutching her bruised cheek, red and swollen. As she reared up, she saw the mercenary coming at her. She flipped back on the floor as his sword came down, stabbing into the floorboards. A mighty kick dislodged the blade from the ground and Mitsurugi's hand, sending it skidding to the side of the room.

The two stood fully, both in battle stances, though neither of them had weapons. Mitsurugi wasted no time plunging forward, his fists hammering, but Taki moved swiftly out of the way, dodging her way across the room, Her wrists still hurt, as did her neck and jaw, and the effects of the poison had not yet worn off. Some of her senses were numbed, but she tried to ignore the fact, jumping and bringing her sandaled foot up. To her shock and dismay, Mitsurugi caught the kick, grabbing her ankle and knee, and threw her down. Her head was bruised and she tried to spring up, but the ronin dove, pinning her down. His hand grasped her throat, pulled her up, and shoved her against the wall, causing a spasm of pain in her back. She breathed disjointedly as Mitsurugi pulled her up higher, his face nearing hers, as she struggled in vain. She closed her eyes, awaiting the inevitable.

"The poison has left you weak, ninja. Be thankful that my mood is good, or I would kill you here."

She opened her eyes, looking deep into his for but a moment. His narrowed eyes softening very slightly, Mitsurugi suddenly loosened his grip and swung Taki down, throwing her onto the floor. The ninja, weak and injured, let her darkening eyes follow Mitsurugi out of the room after he picked up his fallen sword. Her ears heard the dissatisfying thud of the door being slammed and let the pleasant darkness of unconsciousness take her swiftly.


	15. Of Awakening Demons

Author's Note: Okay, LOTS of stuff to read for fans. Firstly: Talim fans: next chapter should satisfy. Talim gets some time in the spotlight (and some abuse, but that's necessary, I promise). Mitsu fans: chapter after that, more Mitsurugi kicking ass. Then, it gets a bit confusing (some surprises). This chapter is VERY IMPORTANT, so read it. I mean it, this is _important_. Trust me. It's also my longest chapter, by 2000 thousand words. I also took some liberties with...stuff. Well, you'll see. Lastly, though my word count on Word says this chapter's upwards of 8,000 words, the word count on the ff.net preview/quick-edit says its 7,000. If there are any sections somehow deleted, discontinuous, that is, don't hesitate to tell me. There's some whacky indednting too, but that shouldn't be hindersome, since I think I managed to fix the paragraph formatting. And now, reviewers: _jade: _Isn't the suffix –chan, used for peers or elders? I thought that was correct use. _Serapis__, Jay Goose, _and _myrmidon: _thanks muchly for reviews, and making me happy that I actually have a fanbase here. You can look forward to the next few chapters, though they're gonna take a while to come out, because my chapters are getting longer (Chapter 17 might be more than 10,000 words, which would be a record for me). Hope you don't mind my long chapters. Read on, I suppose, and don't forget to review (yea, I know, I'm a review whore, but I'm a man, so I guess I'm a review man-whore).

Disclaimer: Don't own SC2. NO.I.DON'T!!!!!!1!!!!1!!!!!_shiftone_!!!! Namco does.

**Chapter XIV – Of Awakening Demons**

> "By the gods…Tartarus!"

And it was Tartarus, or Tartarus as far as the frightened Cassandra Alexandra was concerned.

She stood in a great room, which seemed to have no end. It would have been a normal room, albeit very big, except for the fact that it was filled with jets, pillars, bubbles, and bursts of searing, smoggy flame the spiraled up from suddenly empty openings in the floor, filling the room with constant flashes of bright light and obscuring any view of the ceiling or walls with dense thickets of billowing smoke. The floor was made up of small, foot-sized square tiles, countless numbers of them, and the borders of each glowing as if a whole maelstrom of unadulterated was trying to explode from beneath them, which was probably an accurate assumption. Literally every second, several tiles grouped together would peel away and another column of fire would surge up into the hot air, too close to young Cassandra for comfort.

Nervous, holding her shield up defensively, Cassandra Alexandra moved steadily forward, her gaze fixed at a downward diagonal so she could see both the ground and the fires before her. She kept dodging, dancing warily back and forth to get away from the tiles that were glowing most profusely, as they were the ones most likely to open up, and they usually did. Soon, the hapless Greek found her clothes singed, the fringes and edges disintegrating, plumes of steamy gray rippling from her shield, whose lower quarter had begun steadily melting after a direct hit. As she drew slowly towards the other side of the room, she could no longer walk slowly, or take breaks in between the offending blasts, since their rate had increased ten fold. She was sweating madly, and her skin felt punctured by hot needles just being where she was, regardless of the flaming tongues that stabbed at her every second. She was breathing hard, dragging her weary legs as fast as she could, though all she wanted to do was collapse. But, when she neared that point, the fates continued to conspire against her. Not only were the tiles exploding by the moment, but the floor had heated beyond reason and Cassandra felt the soles of her feet, nearly aflame, her blood boiling and her skin steadily crumbling off of weak, stung muscles.

Slowly, she worked her way through the maze of fire. As time passed, the fiery jets would rise even more rapidly, causing her to move faster. Soon she was running, jumping, and leaping in every direction, trying to overcome the unbearable heat and the pain. Her vision was becoming blurry, her senses becoming dull and useless. Smoke filled her nostrils and mouth and ears, but she tried in vain to fend it off. At last, she managed to blink away the wisps of brownish smog and looked ahead of her at the blaring flashes of light, hearing the fanfare of each explosion. Strangely, something ahead of her stood out from all the fire, something darker and paler. It was a figure, a silhouette of black and white (with a color that vaguely resembled purple) emblazoned on the hellish red and gold. It was human, and it could be only one human; Ivy Valentine. Her thoughts again clouded, Cassandra dashed towards the figure until she had neared it and slid to a halt in an area which seemed safe from the fire. Ivy, hearing her footsteps, turned as she strolled to look at Cassandra, who was but a few feet behind her, and hid a delicate snicker. Ivy was untouched by the maze's hardships, but the Greek had obviously suffered.

"You tried to _kill _me!" roared Cassandra, bearing her hand as if there was a sword in it, though there wasn't.

"So?" Ivy looked unfazed. So much so that Cassandra thought the perturbed vein nestled into her forehead was going to swell and explode right now. "So?" She nearly shrieked, her voice overruled by crackling fires all around. "You don't even care?" Ivy shot her a cold, icy glance as she turned around. Cassandra noticed that her formerly pale skin was, amazingly, just as pale as ever, despite residual scorch marks. Her hair was mussed slightly, but Cassandra couldn't understand how she had gotten so far and looked as if she'd simply come from a sparring session. Of course, when the panting Greek took notice of the prominent burn on Ivy's back, her views on the matter were forced to switch. Musing, Isabella Valentine spoke.

"No, not a bit." She retorted nonchalantly, flicking her wrist, "Should I?"

Cassandra was incensed with rage. She was weaponless, except for a ruined shield, but she felt the rash need to knock Ivy back onto one of the flame jets. She should've known that any fight in the middle of a room filled with fire was an unstable one, but she was too filled with raw emotion, augmented by the pulsing pain that slid through her veins uncomfortably. She dove, up and into the air, but as she fell, the refreshingly cold metallic segments of Ivy's bizarre sword wrapped around her arms and waist, causing her shield to nearly drop. But, to Ivy's annoyance, the coolness of the sword gave Cassandra new energy and the young girl kicked forward, hard, flipping backward still in the grip of Ivy's snake-like weapon. Ivy's head flew back, a single, fashionable bead of blood seeping from the side of her mouth, contrasting the pallid quality of her face. When she turned her head back, rubbing her jaw, her sword stopped constricting and Cassandra, who was currently upside down, fell to the ground, bouncing off her shield. As she struggled to get up, the heat of the floor biting at her skin, she found Ivy's blade hovering beneath her throat.

"Kid, you're lucky I didn't finish the job. I could've. Now, why don't you stay out of my way, hmm? Maybe I _won't _kill you if you do."

Cassandra shot her a defiant look, but nodded in defeat, slowly pushing herself up, still glaring. "Fine."

Ivy looked at her with eyes filled with contempt, but turned anyway. "Now, be careful this time."

No sooner had Ivy uttered those cruelly ironic words, than a vague clicking sounded beneath her high-heeled foot as it fell upon one of the larger tiles. Ivy did not pull her foot back and looked down, dark and shadowy eyes widening, as the tile began to sink into the ground. She instinctively pulled her foot back, but it was too late: whatever trap that had waited there was sprung. As Cassandra, smirking as invisibly as she could, and a horrified Isabella Valentine looked on, the tile peeled downward and fell away, revealing a glowing, bottomless hole filled with fire. Just as suddenly, the tiles around that one slid away too, making the hole greater. It was now apparent that the tiles were broad, cubes of stone that held the floor above what seemed to be a pit of molten fire, raging and spewing forth flaming torrents by the moment. The next few tiles, in no particular order, began falling away.

"Nice move." Cassandra snapped, picking up speed and leaping over the widening hole in the floor, avoiding a fire column.

"Shut up!" Ivy snarled back, doing the same. "C'mon, we've gotta go."

"You think I didn't notice?" The Greek said slowly, growling under her breath, "What about leaving me for dead?"

But Ivy didn't answer, since she was now busy running. Cassandra ventured a glance back and gasped. The floor on the other side of the room had fallen and it seemed that the rising pillars of flame were devouring it. Every time tiles fell away, the fires beneath were let loose and the pit was further revealed. Cassandra didn't hesitate to spin on her heels and race across the floor, which was becoming weaker with each step, dodging the flames, the sparks, and the blinding swords of light that stabbed through what she had thought to be stable sandstone rock. Soon, Ivy had almost completely disappeared from the area, lost in the spurt of fire and the cataclysmic collapse. Her eyes tearing from the break-neck speed she ran at, Cassandra managed to make out the visage of a wall, and with it salvation. She ran, her lugs feeling as if they would give way any second, and her hand shot out as she saw a door set into the high stone wall. She shot towards it and, mustering all her might, threw herself up, landing on her knees in front of the door. Without a moments hesitation, she pushed open the creaking metal window in the rock and pushed her limp body through.

**…**

She stepped through, very slowly and cautiously. She was in a dank hall, filled with cobwebs, with dark shadows clinging to the sandstone walls. The Greek became acutely aware of lifeless things suspended above and around her, but she had no light to see them by. She heard a vague jingling, but otherwise only a distinct silence. She reached her arms out, the one carrying her shield as well, and felt as hanging items, suspended like useless devices from above, glided off of her as she passed. She stopped, feeling the ground in front of her warily with her boot before taking each new step. Now, the circumspect heroin raised her bare hand and felt the objects. They were solid, sleek, and decayed, covered with residual layers of dust. As she drew her digits down the length of the object, she suddenly knew what it was; a skeleton! She flinched, pulling her hand back as she realized that she was surrounded by them, perfectly intact in death.

Luckily, though it disgusted her, there was an upside to all this, the horror around her. As she reluctantly pressed her hand back, she felt the cold of metal leaves covering the hollow rib cage of the carcass. It was armor. She felt her way down, and her hand, open palmed, alighted upon fine leather wrapped in a band; a belt. Soon, she came across a lacquered scabbard dangling uselessly and, to her slight comfort, a sword still lingered within. Carefully and daintily, Cassandra unsheathed the blade and swung it to relieve it of dust, being careful not to hit any of the fleshless cadavers. She gripped the warm hilt, rusted metal now, tightly, and continued moving diligently forward until she saw a vague light at the end of the tunnel. More warily, her eyes narrowing and ladylike brow furrowing, she edged towards it until; finally, light surrounded her again. She was in another huge room, greater and grander than any before, but it was lit more comfortably, brightly, and bore a cool breeze. She couldn't understand how she suddenly got chills in such a warm place, but she did all the same. Her eyes flitting, Cassandra looked around.

The room was vast, with a high ceiling. As Cassandra looked down, she noticed boundaries of the floor, as if she was on a platform. Below the platform was pure darkness, a bottomless pit. Cassandra walked onto the platform, towards the center, and looked around more. Above her there were many decorative hangings and objects. Statues of armored warriors, their bronze pauldrons glowing still, lined the walls which Cassandra could not reach, since they were far off from the platform's edge. Strange statuary eyes, large with blue-painted pupils, hung from chains, focused and rotating slowly. At the far end of the room was a staircase, broad and short, leading up to a kind of slab, or altar. Cassandra eyed it nervously and persevered, but halted suddenly when she realized that she was not alone. It was the footfall that alerted her.

She spun, shooting her sword out ready for battle and…lowered the blade, staring wide-eyed.

Before her stood something she hadn't thought existed except in dreams…or maybe nightmares. At its centers was an eye, with a delicate. Fiery pupil and a fleshy exterior for protection, floating and beating with the resilience of a heartbeat as constant surges of electrical energy burst from it, coursing over its 'body.' It has segmented limbs, bony and thorny, that made up a skeletal form. It had arms, legs, a head, fingers, many things that humans possessed, but it certainly wasn't human. It shined a fiery reddish-gold, like the very tip of flames, and its bony parts were rough and dark. It had great, long talons stretching from its cracked palms and a single claw on each foot, jutting forward. Its arms were raised, but soon lowered slowly to the thing's sides as its eye beat continuously. Angered and dazed, Cassandra raised her sword again.

Suddenly, a voice, a terrible voice that gritted like nails on stone, rang in her head, chiming mercilessly. It was like every voice she'd ever heard in her life melded swiftly into one spasmodic sound that cooed softly as if it held emotion. The voice struck her, as it came from nowhere, and filled her so she could not hear her own thoughts for a moment. She heard its words, echoing in her. _"Ah, a warrior, are we?"_

"What the…" her stammering voice withered and died in her throat. "How…how do I…" The demon's voice in her mind answered the question she'd been thinking, the voice seeming to hum silently as it became more audible, less painful to hear. Though it was impossible to tell, it seemed to be coming from the demon, though it was in her head. As it spoke, his eye beat with each syllable. _"You hear me, child, because, like so many others of your race, your mind is an open book to me."_ Cassandra tried to adjust to the voice, which she couldn't ignore, and spoke back aloud.

"Who?...What are you?"

_"Call me Charade," _said the demon's voice_, "if you must pin a mortal label on me to know me by. Yours is Cassandra, yes?"_

"How did you know that?" the Greek queried, trying to join the 'conversation' more openly, bewildered still.

_"I do not relish being repetitive, young one." _Retorted the demon,_ "You hear my voice in your mind because that is where I am. You may see me before you, standing here, but my presence is more multifaceted than you give it credit. Now then, back to matters at hand. Your name is Cassandra Alexandra, sister of Sophitia Alexandra, from __Athens__?" _she did not answer, looking hard at the cycloptic demon, gesturing with his clawed hands, the demon, Charade, continued, "_Your parents must have had high hopes for you to give you such a name, or none at all…" _again, his voice in her head faded as she stood, looking at his eye defiantly, but he resumed again, actually starting to pace, _"Named for a Trojan girl from forgotten lore, the offspring of King Priam, blessed with the gift of foresight but cursed by the eternal ignorance of others…A pleasant name, indeed."_

By now disgusted by the demon's insinuations, Cassandra's blade shot up, swerving in front of Charade as he paced nonchalantly. "Get out of my mind, demon!" she said, with an air of command. The demon turned, his eye filled with a look of amusement. _"And you would expedite me from it, child?" _his voice chanted, with a melodious tone, but suddenly became loud and forceful."_Proud and arrogant girl, I do not bow to mortal whims!"_

"I said, get out of my mind!" Cassandra lunged with her sword, swiping at Charade nimbly. Charade, to her amazement, bent backward, flipping beneath her blade as it cut through the air. He, or it, somersaulted backwards under to singing blade, landed on his left foot, and axed his right foot around, bashing it against Cassandra's side, which was injured from the incident with Ivy before. She winced and pulled up her shield just as Charade's talons dug deep into the metal, puncturing the other side of the buckler. But, the distracting blow from the left caused Cassandra to look away, and she didn't have time to deflect Charade's claws, which raked across her upper chest, cutting three, neat, red lines in her outfit. She staggered and Charade stepped back to admire his handiwork. In her head, Cassandra heard something that sounded like a chuckle.

_"Come now, dear, you can do better than that. You have your sister's tutelage under your belt, or is it all worthless?"_

At this Cassandra's eyes narrowed into a pair of fiery slits, rage beginning to well up in her as she spoke, to both her infected mind and the demon standing in front of her. "You don't know my sister! Use her name again and I swear I will kill you where you stand!"

_"A bit belligerent today, I see." _Laughed the demon, _"Maybe we should resume later, after you've collected yourself."_

"Shut up!" Cassandra lunged again, raising her weapon, but Charade's talons, crossed in front of him, caught her new sword quickly between his intertwined fingers. _"I'm not the one talking, Miss Alexandra, you are. Now, have you any more vapid retorts?"_ Maddened beyond reason, Cassandra yanked her sword free and hacked at him repeatedly, driving him back, though the demon managed to lithely dodge every one of her anger-induced attacks. She spoke, in between sharply taken breaths. "Get – out – of – my – mind!" Suddenly, as she seemed to be forcing him away, he halted. She watched, horrified, as a sleek, silvery sharp object began to coalesce in his open palm as he curled his fingers around a hilt that seemed to bloom from his hand, like a metal flower blossoming. As the demon clenched his fist, the blade sharpened and straightened while a circular object began to twist out of his left lower arm, growing into the exact likeness of her shield. She gasped openly. "How did you do that?"

_"You ask too many question, girl. What words have you with your sword?" _Strangely, Cassandra had almost gotten accustomed to the voice by now, but that didn't stop her from reacting rashly. "My sword will find your blood, hellborn!"

She dove in again, her sword flying down diagonally, but it glanced harmlessly off Charade's replica of her shield. She stumbled on her feet, but ducked, jumping and falling, as Charade's sword whirred above her head. She shot up and stabbed at him, but he evaded and his arm laced around hers. Before she squirmed away, his shield struck her back, sending a jolt of pain through it. Grunting indignantly, she spun on her heel, flinging up her foot, and her toe found its mark in the squishy substance that made up Charade's eye. But, the electrical lances radiating from the retina struck her back, singing her foot and leg, which she was forced back. She looked up to see Charade moving back, nursing his injured main organ.

_"You're not as juvenile as I had first surmised, child." _His voice muttered pleasantly, _"There's hope for you yet."_

"If you call me 'child' one more time, I'll-"

_"Do what? Drive your little knife into your skull and try to purge me from it? Your thoughts are becoming almost comic in their stupidity."_ Enraged, her eyes nearly aflame, Cassandra plowed forward, taking the demon off guard as he realized the point of her blade was hovering dangerously close to his unblinking pupil. "Why are you here?!" she roared, "Why do you hinder me?" He pushed her off, slashing at her and cutting her sleeve as he stood, glaring. His voice's volume grew malevolently, swelling at an alarming rate in Cassandra Alexandra's head. _"I keep this place from imbecilic mortals from above who would come here and take what I guard."_

"And what do you guard, hellspawn?" she hissed.

_"Something that no one wants, but has made need for itself."_He shot back, with wicked nonchalance.

"Stop speaking in riddles!"

_"Need I remind you that I am not speaking?"_

"WHAT DO YOU GUARD!" she cried, losing herself in her anger as she raised her blade. _"I know not now, and I will not unless it is taken."_

"More riddles! Tell me!"

As she spoke this final time, his voice grew, swelling and contorting madly until she was driven back by its noise, its cacophony all confined to the structure of herself. Nearly dropping her sword and shield, she pressed her hands against her ears, trying in vain to hold back a scream that forced its way out of her throat. She collapsed, kneeling, quaking on the floor as the horrific voice filled her. _"FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF!" _it cried, the sound grating on her very soul as the demon, suddenly wreathed in a cold, bright fire, with pulses of lightning cascading off him._ "GO ON, HUMAN FILTH, AWAKEN HIM!"_

"Awaken who?" she cried meekly, clutching her pounding head. "WHO?"

_"AWAKEN HIM AND BE THE DOOM OF US ALL," _the demon roared. Even though his voice was in Cassandra's head, it filled the room, echoing off of every wall as the eye of Charade pulsed faster and faster. He moved forward, each step burning the rocky earth beneath it like a branding iron and leaving a steamy plume of smoke behind. Bearing down on the girl, seething and blazing, he moved towards her._ "IF YOU SO DESIRE! IF THAT IS NOT YOUR PURPOSE, LEAVE THIS PLACE AND NEVER RETURN! ONLY THE HOPELESS COME HERE, FOR HERE IS ONLY HOPELESSNESS! WHOEVER BREAKS THE BARS OF THE PRISON I HAVE BUILT, THAT MORTAL FOOL SHALL BEAR THE CONSEQUENCES!"_

Suddenly, it all became clear with the demon's poem. Still kneeling on the ground, Cassandra Alexandra, her fit of painful paroxysms ended, looked up at the demon, her mouth open noiselessly and wordlessly. "You…you wrote the poem…on the door…didn't you?" Her small, pitiful voice was easily overruled by his tremendous blare as he walked on. _"LEAVE THIS PLACE! LEAVE NOW OR DO WHAT YOU MUST!"_

Despite the pain, the voice was driving her insane. Cassandra's last jolt of energy sent her onto her feet and flying towards Charade. "GET OUT OF MY MIND!" Her voice, at last, blocked out his voice as it lurked and spoke inside her. The noises faded, replaced by the bewildering clang of Cassandra's ancient sword upon Charade's rippling shield. The demon pulled back, blocking Cassandra's next attack precisely with his blade. He drove his own sword forward, clipping her uninjured arm. She almost jumped as a mild but shocking lance of pain pricked the hewn veins, but she continued doggedly, her face twisting into a defiant but unbecoming scowl, which seemed, oddly enough, to be unmoving to the demon. He continued, driving her back this time, as his entire form fizzled and radiated with brilliant, sinister color, a gratuitous lightshow that bathed the sand-colored room in hues of red and gold. The floor was speckled as if thousands of sparkling rubies littered it, each shimmering with more malevolence than beauty.

Cassandra, though persevering, could not help but be overtaken by a spasm of fright. At first, Charade had only been an ominous harbinger, abnormal, but not necessarily frightening. Now, as fire spewed up from his every orifice like hellish fountains, she found that she no longer wished to look at him…or it (she had not yet deduced what gender it was, though its voice was more reminiscent of a male). She backed up, edging down the length of the platform with Charade hammering away, denting her shield beyond repair and chipping the withered blade until it was no more than antiquated junk, crumbling more with every swing. Finally, as she held her hand out weakly, no longer even trying to parry, his blade beat down on it until it cracked, the rusty metal shriveling before her horrified eyes. She released the hilt, with no steel attached, and let it clatter uselessly onto the stone tiles beneath her. Cassandra grabbed her shield's edges with both hands, holding in front of her to take the face of every attack, maneuvering it from side to side. Suddenly, Charade's weapon poked through, slicing her chest barely. Then it poked through again, missing her flesh, but cutting cloth instead. The shield was soon riddled with holes and Cassandra was forced onto her knees, praying that the buckler could last until she thought of something.

She looked around frantically from behind the circular obstacle, hoping to see something. All she saw were the decorations, treasures laid on the platform, statues in the far corners, the hanging eyes…the eyes! With a swift-thinking glint, her gaze darted up at the many hanging statues that depicted narrowed, single eyes, suspended from the ceiling. She had only one chance, and it was a complete shot in the dark, but she had to take it. The shield wouldn't hold out much longer. As it began to crack and buckle, her eyes returned to Charade. Taking sharp, wheezing breaths, she perfectly timed her next maneuver. Just as Charade drove down a mighty hand, intending to cleave the shield in two, Cassandra ducked. The demon halted for a moment, confused, which was all the time Cassandra needed. She grabbed his thorny legs and pulled, yanking them out from under him. As he was thrown up, she dove towards him, bashing hard with what remained of her shield. Disoriented, the demon flew back and crashed onto the tiles, sending dust and send up in a meager spray around him. He looked up, dazed. Cassandra took the opportunity to set her plan into action.

As a young girl, like many folk of her city, Cassandra had been tenderly, though carefully taught to throw a discus, just as she'd been trained to battle with sword and shield, run with the speed of a deer, cast a javelin, and leap like a rabbit. She had never thought she'd need the talent of discuss throwing, which she'd never been particularly good at, but she surely needed it now. She leveled her shield, letting go with one hand and holding it horizontally. She aimed, closing one eye, at one of the stone eyes, one hanging right above where Charade had fallen. Concentrating hard, she whipped her arm forward in a fluid arc. The shield, just like a discus in shape, soared forward and upward. Though it was weak, it easily severed the chains holding the statue when it hit them before flying past and slamming into the opposite wall, which cause it to shatter. But the job was done. After creaking noisily for a split second, the eye fell, plummeting down. The hapless demon on the ground let his unblinking eye look up and widen with a look of surprise, confusion, and annoyance in it as the huge stone object closed the distance between him and it.

Cassandra fell back as a blinding light, less red and more white, surged through the room. The stone eye crashed onto Charade with an ear-splitting crunch. His eye, as the stone drove it into the ground, quivered madly, ferociously, like a foaming-at-the-mouth canine, shaking vigorously and violently from one side to the other inside the demon's chest. His bones wavered and cracked as electric bursts shot from him like firework sparks, darting across the room and bouncing on the platform floor. Each of the fragments that made up his body, all shaking with tremulous verve, separated, glowing. They hovered, separated from the ones they'd been affixed to, still shivering in mid-air, and suddenly flew every which way as a light more blinding than the first filled the room, causing Cassandra to fall, clasping her hands over her eyes until a loud, multifaceted crackling sound resonated through the room, drumming in her ears, and all went dramatically silent. Slowly, she removed her sweaty palms from her face and looked up.

At the center of the room, where Charade had been, lay an unholy scorch mark that bruised the stone. The eye of Charade was gone, but the segments of his body: arms, legs, fingers, and the rest, lay splayed out on the floor around. As Cassandra leaned forward, she found herself face to face with the demon's whole arm, which was wrenching from side to side, the fingers of his hand opening and closing. She held in a scream, but a muffled yelp escaped her. Like some animal, the arm seemed to notice and, with the last of its waning energy, seemed to leap at her. She grabbed it in mid-air and forced it away, but suddenly, it went limp and, right in her grasp, exploded weakly, sending all the sections of the arm away. The thing's index finger bounced off Cassandra's nose, which wrinkled in disgust as she dropped what she held, the stump of Charade's right arm.

Gasping for air, though she had plenty, Cassandra staggered forward, around the sizzling scorch mark, weary beyond reason, but strangely captivated. She walked towards the slab on an altar, at the top of the broad stairs, near the center of the platform but aligned away from her. Upon the center of the new, elevated platform, the altar-like object sat a rectangular slab of crystalline stone, glassy and like some kind of great gem, its edges sparkling gently and glittering as gold would. It was colored deep red, as if the slab had been cut from a wall of the reddest rubies. It fascinated Cassandra, though she wasn't sure why, but its cold, deadness soured the taste of victory. Its gleam, though, tantalized her, pulled her toward it, the bright crimson of the crystal substance became even brighter as she neared it, her arms hanging and swinging at her sides.

"You killed it?" The voice of Ivy Valentine pulled her violently from the strangely surreal experience. She turned, slowly, but only her head. Her body still faced the slab as her foot fell on the first of the four steps. "I don't think he's…_its_ dead." She said, after a brief pause, noting that Ivy was inspecting the central scorch mark curiously. She realized that she was still unsure of the demon's gender, but he had seemed male before, so she had not considered the repercussions of calling him a 'he.' But, soon enough her attentions were diverted when the pale Englishwoman headed past the remains of Charade and toward the stairs. Her voice was just as cold and toneless as it always was. "Doesn't matter to me."

She slowly marched up until, her eyes straightened into two slits, she stood right beside the slab, looking at it intently. It glittered more fervently as her hand moved out, passing over it. There was a frosty sensation, like snow on her hand, which ran through her arm steadily while she ran her palm across the smooth coffin-like block. A flicker leapt in her expression as her other hand slid up, bearing her snake sword in it. She raised it, glowering down at the slab, which was now resonating, its surface beginning to ripple noticeably like water, its edges glowing and beginning to crackle with very slight jolts of electrical energy. Suddenly, Cassandra, realizing what was about to happen, ran forward, her fingers closing tightly around Ivy's wrist.

"Wait, what are you doing?" she exclaimed, barely knowing what she was saying but coming to the startling and plain realization that whatever was in that opaque slab was the thing Charade had warned of, the thing he'd been protecting, the thing he'd been so adamant about keeping safe. She wasn't sure if the demon had simply been trying to deter her from getting the object, but it was still the temptation of the slab that drove her away. Usually the most tempting things were the most dangerous, as Cassandra's sister had often told her. Her self-consciousness actually alarmed her, but she did not hesitate to continue to hold Ivy's hand back. Ivy's head swiftly turned to see the obstacle behind.

"Getting what I came for." She said, with disgusting nonchalance.

"No!" Cassandra's voice swelled, leaping up an octave to gain volume as she held Ivy's hand and wrist more firmly, "He…it said that there was something horrible in here…" she paused, her grip loosening involuntarily. "I think…we should leave."

Ivy's composed face suddenly narrowed fully at Cassandra; angry sparks lighting in her eyes of snowy cold, and a jolt of anger pulsing in her. She spun, batting Cassandra away by pulling her blade down and ramming it harshly into the younger girl's head and neck from the side. The Greek staggered and fell, tripping down the stairs and landing in a heap at the bottom as her gloved hand moved to the red lump forming on her head. "Have you gone insane, girl?" cried Ivy, her voice huge and magnificent so that it filled Cassandra's ears, "I came all this way, and I'm not about to leave now."

Slowly, Ivy turned, her fluid arm stiffening as it rose over the glassy, fog-filled slab, high into the air, her eyes widening and lip curling in evil satisfaction as her goal, sitting beneath her, rose to meet her blade. Suddenly Cassandra was shooting forward, still weaponless, bounding up the brief staircase, and she darted in front of Ivy, pushing and pulling her sideways, grappling with her. "NO! DON'T!" she shrieked, her eye color dimmed and tainted by a pale, deep cerulean that was certainly abnormal. Her voice seemed different as well, colder and somewhat metallic. Ivy stared at her for a moment, shocked and appalled, but knew that she would not, could not be hindered.

"Out of my way!"

Ivy's blade fell swiftly, with ruthless efficiency, slicing Cassandra's skin at the shoulder. The light in her eyes diminished, she stumbled and fell, gasping for air, agonized and injured. Ivy, seeing the moment rise before her, ready to be grabbed and taken, spun to the slab, yanked up her blade and, with time that seemed to take years, plunged her unfurling snake sword into the crystal brick.

She plunged back, lifted by unseen arms when her blade crashed down. The invisible gripping objects propelled her up, hovering for a second, and threw her backward towards the other end of the room as it filled with a mixture of heavenly and hellish light. The slab rippled uncontrollably, twisting back and forth as pieces of it seemed to rear up, groping at every reach of the room as the block glowed madly, giving off thousands of electrical sparks and bolts of dark lightning that struck and scorch the floor. Like the other room, the tiles of the floor glowed madly and began to be pushed upward by bubbling, billowing flame, though it was flame far redder than normal flame, tinted the color of blood. Slowly, at the center of the lightshow, the slab cracked, shattered, broke, and crumbled, pieces of it chipping away and shooting in every direction as the light became greater and greater. It swelled to such magnitude that there was nothing in the room, nay, the whole crypt underground but blinding, untainted, unadulterated, incomparable light.

And then the world went black…

**…**

When the world went black…

Cervantes de Leon, his whiskery sideburns rippling in the sea breeze, stood, his foot raised and positioned on the furnished prow of his ship, the Charybdis, posing for no one to see. His arms were crossed impatiently across his chest, the feather in his piratical cap whipping aimlessly from side to side. His eyes, lifeless orbs swimming with the absence of color, rolled sideways into the pockets of dead flesh beside them as his lips curled into an indignant scowl. Uncrossing his arms slowly and sliding his armored leg off of the prow, he turned, letting each eye settle back into its appointed place, and looked out with an expression of seething frustration, over the crowded main deck of his ship. For a moment, he looked onward, those eyes taking in the sight of the frothy tips of each Mediterranean wave as it smashed helplessly against the iron-fitted hull of the Charybdis.

On the deck he looked down on, men had alighted like hungry crows, pecking at the surplus food and entertaining devices laid out. They were gathered, huddled into messy groups, some toying with small pewter dice that jingled annoyingly as they rolled across the planks of the deck, some throwing down torn playing cards, many ripped and ragged beyond measure, and throwing their worthless copper coins onto ever-growing piles of the same as they gambled. Many were guzzling down gallon after gallon of tasteless, flavorless grog with what little rum that could be scrounged from the storage rooms below deck mixed in to create quite a caustic, malodorous concoction. The smoky smell wafted over the whole ship, twirling up into the air as the sails billowed without a care, the oceanic wind pulling the hulk of vessel along through the foaming waves. His eyes continued their unsettled scan, looking towards every section of the beast that bore him to his destination and beyond.

Suddenly, his gaze settled on a bobbing dot that had materialized beneath stormy clouds on the distant horizon. His scowling mouth twisted and contorted into a murderous grin as he walked towards the ship's railing and let his gloved fingers loop around it. It was another ship that he saw, the small visage registering instantly in his mind. A course, gruff chuckle sounded in his rumbling throat and he turned, walking along the railing but still eying the other vessel as it drew closer. It had small sails, and was relatively large, but not imposing. Probably a Turkish merchant barque, or at least that was Cervantes' highly educated guess. Cervantes, the dread pirate, finally turned, headed over to the railing of the steering deck and looked down on his unwary crew, still grinning widely, though that expression soon became darker, more serious. One hand moving to his blade, the Soul Edge, he thumped a gauntleted hand, clenched tightly into a fist, on the railing, alerting his crew of brigands and felons.

"C'mon, ye scurvy dogs," he bellowed, knocking each and every buccaneer from their drunken stupors, "Ship off the port bow! We'll be feastin' and drinkin' again tonight if we take this one!" Slowly but surely, and soon with more obvious enthusiasm, the pirates began to scramble up oafishly and scurry across the deck, below and above, to their appointed stations. "Get up, all ye bilge rats, and get to the guns!" On command, they sprang into more speedy action, looking like furious ants as they hurried about, pulling all of the rusted cannons to the side of the Charybdis and dragging sacks of black powder and rolling pitted cannonballs towards the port railing. Cervantes' serious grin contorted into a bizarre grimace as he hopped from the steering deck onto the main one nimbly, the sabatons strapped to his feet clanking eerily as his unsheathed his blade with an elegant flourish. The dread pirate ran forward, brandishing his weapon merrily until…

A wave, unfurling like a watery tidal wave in the air, surged over the sky and the sea, causing everything in its wake to fizzle and ripple as if it was all a great tapestry, torn asunder. The wave wiped over everything, painting it all black, blacker than night, black as starless space. The Charybdis was black, the water was black, and Cervantes' whitened gaze was jet black and dark as the throes of death. A ceremonious gasp of confusion tried to rise, but was muffled by a gratuitous, fluctuating thump that echoed and remained, a shrill caw filling the air for the span of many moments, that could've been mistaken for the passage of several slow millennia. The darkness, shriveling up every aspect of light and turning it to black, overwhelmed the seascape, leaving no rock or frothy wave unturned, no solitary pigment untouched by the deathly pallor until, at last, the wave passed, leaving naught but silence.

The silence was broken by one of the oafish crewmembers.

"Umm…sir? What the hell was that?"

**…**

When the world went black…

Beneath a blood-red sky, its edges tinted dusky blue as the sun, murky and watery, was clouded over by the thick cloak of night as it swept up from the horizon, stood a young man, in his twenties, set in a battle stance with a furrowed brow, tight and serious. He clasped in his hands, each wrapped in tattered bands of crimson cloth, a long staff held at a diagonal, which he was prepared to use when the moment came. He paused momentarily, his hand shooting up to his face to flick a loose strand of hair from it, which was hovering distractingly in front of his deep eyes. As he did this, his line of sight returned to the bearded man, muscular and steady, who stood across from him at the opposite end of a courtyard plane. The two, the young and the old, looked at each other intensely for more than a minute, hovering in place and ready to strike, waiting for the opportune moment.

Suddenly, the young man's foot skidded back and pushed him forward. His scarf-like cloak, trailing in the air, he leapt forward, pulling his arms back as he soared towards the other. The old man sidestepped with amazing ease as the young one, suddenly yanking his bo staff forward, crashed into the smooth, slightly shimmering alabaster ground. The old one turned, his strong, hands clutching a great blade in a vice grip, and wheeled around, his legs and feet sliding beneath him. The young one reared up and pulled back, spinning his staff up until it was at a diagonal in front of him and took the brunt of his foe's attack, causing the rod to waver temporarily before its owner had to step back. A second later, he plowed onward, avoiding a gargantuan arc made by the other blade, and struck. His attack was parried as the old man whipped his sword around, but he continued to hammer each side of the enemy, forcing him backward along the court. He continued attacking, thrusting and jabbing with the long staff as sweat began to form in rapidly falling beads on his tanned forehead and face. His arms became weary as he continued without fail to smite that same spot. Suddenly, as his attacks reached their greatest speed yet, his foe surprised him, spinning lithely out of the way and pulling his blade in a full arc, the whole way around him, and slammed the flat of the broadsword he gripped with both hands into the younger man's exposed back. The boy tried to steady himself, but failed, and fell forward, spitting blood onto the pure white ground as the air began flowing back into him.

Slowly, he brought his bandaged hand up and slid along his face, wiping the clots of blood from his chin and nose. Adjusting the mirrored sash hung over his shoulder with neat precision, he stood, leaning on his weapon, the bo staff. He looked solemnly, panting with rhythmic timing, at the man who'd defeated him, who stood up to his full height, his long, braided beard of cloudy grey and ivory white blew backward in warm Indian winds. He lowered his shimmering blade, the lengthy, broad metal filled with the sunny reflection that lingered, imparting little light to the darkened area as dusk and night set in, the careless veil of which was being tightly drawn over the heavens at that very moment.

"Good, Kilik" said the aged man, nodding his bearded head swiftly as his muscles' tension relaxes and the veins standing out on his neck and bare forehead settled, "very good, but you focused your steady attacks too much. Once you have found an opening in your opponent's defenses, you should pursue that opening to its logical end, but do not lose track of the openings that may have developed for _them_. Always be wary of your weaknesses, even if you are concentrating on your enemies, for their weakness might be yours as well, if you are not careful."

"Yes, Edgemaster," replied Kilik, nodding his head with a dignified bow, "I shall remember that."

He walked slowly towards his master, contemplating in total, immobile silence, as he let the staff sit loosely in his relaxed grip. Edgemaster turned from him, sliding the broadsword into a sheath on his back, and looked down the length of the courtyard. Suddenly, his two focused pupils dove up, looking at the sky in the distance. His mouth fell open and he froze in mid-step, staring at the horizon. Kilik, walking beside him, stared as well as a sudden, dark wave rippled across the sky, momentarily shrouding both of the men, the master and the student, in pitch blackness. They stood completely otionless as the ebony shockwave whipped around and over them, and did not move for many moments after it had passed.

"Master! What was that?"

"I do not know, Kilik. I truly do not know."

**…**

When the world went black…

In the city of Katmandu, the small country of Nepal, the screams of women and children tainted the air, and the color of wet blood marred the clear, crystal white of the crunchy snow. Every which way people ran; many covered with blood that wasn't theirs, fleeing and shrieking madly as they tried to find refuge from the creature that was slaying everyone they'd ever known. Their lives were being systematically destroyed, and most taken, by a monstrosity who had materialized in their midst and had not stopped to say a word before his rampage, his killing spree, began. He had ravaged and roared, decimated the town, which was ablaze around him as he wandered its ruins, killing heedlessly and without a care in the world. It had not stopped for hours, and showed no sign of stopping until the last living being in Katmandu had been brutally, senselessly slain.

At the center of the town, standing in snow so red it could no longer be called snow, was an azure figure, caked with splatters of dried life fluid, his chest heaving wildly beneath a rusted, dull-colored breastplate. His eyes, red and glowing furiously, radiated with microscopic lances of energy that zigzagged through the pitch darkness concealed beneath his visor. A sound seemed to be forcing its way steadily from his ragged throat, but he couldn't be sure whether it was a grim laugh or an equally grim sob. He wasn't sure he cared either. Nightmare was used to killing people, very used to it, and it had never elicited second thoughts from him before. Thus, he didn't plan on developing sudden qualms about killing. His grip on his blade, which now was resting on the bloody snow, seemed to be loosening, becoming unstable as it quivered. As his helmeted head turned to it, he saw that its length was vibrating strangely, but he ignored the bizarre sensation, hefting Soul Edge up and moving towards the last survivors.

He saw, through that dank visor, shrouding the atmosphere around him to hazy, midnight hue, the last remnants of life. A woman, still young, probably in her twenties, clutching a child in the wrinkled rags of her shredded clothes sat huddled against the crumbling ruin of a wall, no longer with walls alongside it. Nightmare, in his helm, could not force a smile or a grin as he neared her, dragging his armored legs and blade, pulsating frustratingly with anticipation, on the rocky crags of earth. As he neared her, she turned from him as best she could and curled into a protective position around the confused child, who was crying noisily. She was sobbing, loudly, and for good reason. She'd probably seen most of the townsfolk brutally slain by Nightmare. Now, there were none left. Every citizen of the city had been murdered in cold blood, exorcized of life by the demon knight.

Nightmare became aware that she was saying something, probably to him, since she had looked at him again. Probably begging for her pitiful life, he reckoned, and continued clanking towards her. She turned again, looking away from him. Her mouth was still moving, but Nightmare could not hear her word in this state of relieved ecstasy. His pace slowed as he realized that she must be praying, praying to whatever she believed in. Again, the well of pity jabbed at him, but he pushed it aside and continued. The shrill squawk of the young one wrung in Nightmare's sensitive ears, but he ignored the pang of pity that his inner self was feeling. As he done with so many, he uplifted his weighted arm, decked with azure plates, letting rivers of blood flow down the length of Soul Edge. He raised his blade over the weeping female and the bundle she protected, readying himself for the annexation of another soul.

Before the blade fell, just as it had swept into motion, darkness took the world, the same darkness seen by Cervantes, the dread pirate, and so many others, everyone on the planet's face. Nightmare loved darkness, but not this darkness. It was horribly unsettling as the clouds of it filled him, seeping like fluid gas through the cracks in his armor and wafting through. Just as it had been everywhere else, it was swift. The darkness evaporated back into red, deathly light after but a minute, but a left a stomach-wrenching feeling inside the azure figure. He looked down, through new light, to see his blade hovering but an inch from the sobbing woman's head, completely motionless. She was quivering with deep-rooted fear, but was still using herself to shield the now silent child bundled up in her thin arms.

Though he didn't know why, Nightmare pulled the blade back. For the first time in a long time, he felt as if he was full and could devour no more. The darkness passing had ruptured his constant hunger. Lowering Soul Edge, which protested with metallic roars, he turned and walked through the snow, the rocks, and the carpet of corpses on the pure white earth, heading towards the entrance to this city where he'd first appeared. He ignored the quieted sobs of the female, and the refreshed giggling of the child, who didn't seem to comprehend what had happened at all.

The woman looked after him, still weeping. She was, perhaps, the first and only person to survive an attack by the monster wielding Soul Edge.

Something terrible had happened; something that would change the world forever…


	16. Friends, Foes, and Failings

Author's Note: Ok, sorry about the wait, but here we go. This chapter is for lovers of those old pirate swashbucklers. If you don't remember what was going on with Talim, Raphael, and Rock, you might wanna check. There is a little Talim abuse within, for which I apologize but I have reasons. Firstly, I need to get some philosophical points across, so this isn't just a garbled piece of war fiction. Second, she gets to kick some ass too, as you'll see soon. Also, one of my characters may seem OOC (you'll know who, but I can't tell you now, t'sa surprise). Again, don't worry, he's not really OOC, just in an uncharacteristic mood this day, for reasons to be revealed (it happens, and it's not an excuse, it's for the plot again, he'll be IC later in the chapter). _Darkfencer__:_ Raph's just being arrogant, but he'll be very in character this chapter, I think. _Jade: _If this gets more violent, I might make it R, but not now, isn't too violent or sex-filled. _YF: _Glad you like. Yes, it's a major cliffhanger, but you'll see soon. That chapter should be good. Everyone will find out soon what was unleashed and, No, it was not Evil Seed. I'm glad most liked the Charade depiction. Alright, ON TO THE CHAPTER! Might be a bit weird, but I think you'll enjoy it (second apology to Talim fans for some trauma). It also might be discontinuous, but, you see, my mind is a little...dead. Good reading to thee! LASTLY (deep breath), my Tagalog is a bit rusty. Forgive me if it's innacurate...

Disclaimer: Mesa nosa owny da Soul Caliba, no no, mesa only own da odda peeps you no know.

**Chapter XV – Friends, Foes, and Failings**

The eyes of every man (and one obstreperous female) on the good ship, Marie Rose, were fixed ever on the small, bobbing lump on the contorting horizon, drawing ever closer as excitable shrieks poured off of it, joyful in anticipation of new treasure. The crew of the Marie Rose, utterly bewildered, just stared at this new vessel cresting the horizon swiftly. Raphael was the first to peel his gaze away from the evident mesmerizing effect of the vessel. It was the surprise of the whole thing that had truly gotten through to the crew, but Raphael would take advantage of it. He inched towards Talim, who still held the much needed shard.

But, he was interrupted by a an arrow that struck the earth, twanging and resonating down its wooden length as the shaft quivered in the plank right in front of Raphael's big left toe. He pulled his foot out of the way and walked back as more arrows thudded into the wooden rail and deck of the Marie Rose. Soon enough, the rain became hail as the other ship drew nearer. By Raphael's recollection, it was Chinese, with ridged sails and tiled decks that bore a more regal splendor and homely quality than rougher, stauncher European seafaring vehicles. It bobbed closer, the arrows unsheathing from it like blades themselves, as the ship with its neatly cropped sails, more majestic than the rumpled tatters of the sails of the Marie Rose, fluttering eternal in oceanic wind. Still, as he heard the simultaneous nervous gulps, the Frenchman inched along his way, the surprise and horror after he'd murdered Rush in cold blood subsiding fast as his bereft face peeled into a terrible grin while his rapier lifted, leveling at the teenager.

As he neared her, her head suddenly snapped his way. She was about to scream (or perhaps simply roar angrily, though the Frenchman wouldn't have been prepared for that), but the sound was instantly overpowered by an even more raucous cry, followed by the pouring of footsteps. Raphael's path was suddenly blocked by a long, jagged hook with rope in a tail behind it, which latched messily onto the plank in front of Raphael. He stepped back, watching more arrows fly and more hooked grapplers grabbing onto the vessel he stood on. Throwing countless grappling hooks across the space between each ship, the pirate's began to madly clamor over as the arrow barrage stopped at the crew of the Marie Rose, now in total disarray, scattered like rats in face of an overbearing feline. All except Rock, Talim, and Raphael were fleeing backward across the deck as pirates jumped over the railing and alighted on the Marie Rose, bearing toothless, vulgar grins on their faces. Raphael tried to ignore them as he plowed towards Talim again, only to realize that she was gone. Angrily, he sped after her.

She was not fleeing in fear, of course, but simply to keep the shard from him. In his rage, it was obvious that he would not toy with her at all before the end. The problem with the situation was that pirates were now clamoring noisily aboard the Marie Rose, baring their cruel and crude weapons stupidly, brandishing them at the sky in misplaced defiance as the rain blindly across the main deck. The confusion, commotion, and darkness that had descended wistfully to accompany stormy clouds above gave Talim the cover she needed to flee below deck as the original crew crowded over her location, some running past her, some off to the edge of the ship to dive off into the sea and seek refuge beneath its torrential waves, bashing heartily against the weary hull. Some stood to defend, running towards the pirates and engaging them in combat until the deck was filled with battling couples (and the occasional trio or quartet), swiping at each other and tearing the masts and planks of the deck to ribbons in little time.

At this point, Talim had lost track of both Rock and Raphael. She had to find a way down, into the cargo hold perhaps, or the dank and small bar. She had seen battles there, but it was still small and cramped, and would be easy to bury herself in some corner of. Unfortunately, she could not find any door leading down, as every one was blocked by crowds. She ran as fast as she could along the length of the main deck to no avail. She looked up, her nose in the air, as a gentle sensation, cold but refreshing, hit her. Another prick of low temperature hit her cheek and glided off of it slowly. It was raining, very delicately and with bare resolve, but it was raining nonetheless. She tried to ignore the erratic whether as the storm continued to pelt her with narrow droplets, falling from the cloudy sky and plunking almost noiselessly on the deck. There were weak attempts at lightning thumping behind the curtain of wispy dark blue in the heavens, and rattles of misplaced thunder every so often, but the sounds did not affect Talim as she sprinted towards the rickety, wobbling set of stairs that led up from the main deck to the steering deck, hoping for salvation. She grabbed the railing of the higher deck and swung herself onto it, looking at the steering wheel which, with no man to hold it in tow, was spinning madly as the rain's force increased. So, she was on the steering deck, as the rain pelted her, and might have been safe, except for one thing.

Pirates were all around, or so it seemed. There were really only five, which was not a great amount, but more formidable a supply than Talim had expected. Getting away from one power-hungry maniac had only led her into this newest den of lions. She looked around quickly, thanking her ancestors that she had her tonfas out and in hand, ready in a battle stance. The pirates, rugged and generally vulgar looking, jeered and hooted at her oafishly. She looked back at them, her eyes shooting them a deadpan look, as emotionless a glare as she could muster, but it was harder to seem unafraid than she'd thought. She took a wary step back, and the quintet of buccaneers took a step toward her to accommodate. Their lips were all peeled back, revealing mouths of craggy, jagged yellow teeth, with the occasional gap between, their mouth curled into grimacing grins as they began to advance. Barring herself for the inevitable, Talim raised her arms defensively and assumed a more aggressive combat stance.

As she had predicted, two lunged at her. She flew back on instinct, but knew what she was doing. She'd trained for such things, been prepared for battle. Though her constitution had inadvertently halted her from challenging Raphael directly when she was assaulted, these pirates seem like low-grade morons who she could defeat. And sure enough, as she flew back and brought one leg up, the pirate it was aimed at was too stupid to block or dodge. Talim's heel sunk into his gut and he stumbled, grabbing his unclothed chest and grunting. Talim landed nimbly and ducked beneath the Chinese broadsword, long and chipped, its blade having been eaten away at by unseen forces, which flew over her. She dashed forward a few bounding paces as the other pirates wormed in her direction. Her tonfa's flat struck the broadsword-bearing pirate in the chin, and he promptly tripped back. As he fell, Talim quickly planted her knee in his chest and uncoiled her leg, which kicked him up and backward across the deck until he bashed through the railing of the steering level and fell down roughly six feet onto the main deck.

There were three intact pirates left, and one groaning and clutching an injured section protectively. Two more pirates lunged, one up and one down. Talim sidestepped the first, who stumbled beside her, allowing her to drive her elbow forcefully into his exposed (and amazingly hairy) back. He staggered more, his legs protesting the weight put upon them, and Talim obliged, swinging her leg around again to meet the back of his legs, causing him to crumble and fall in a heap. The other who'd lunged swung two blades, shorter but just as crude, which Talim parried. She realized, as she felt hard wood on her arm, that she was being forced backward towards the other railing that gave way into the raging sea. She ducked and swerved as the same pirate leapt at her, very uncoordinated in his volatile, sudden movement, and slammed into the railing, flipping over it and sliding down the ship's hull into the sea below. _'Two left'_, she thought _'one injured'_.

She was the one on the offensive now, feeling strangely energized by the victory so near her groping grasp. Her tonfas whirled majestically, shredding the downpour of raindrops before her. The blades only had to nick the injured pirate, whisking away a thread of crimson fluid, and he fell, unconscious rather than slain. Talim found that, after seeing several men murdered so harshly, she could not bring herself to accomplish the feat of killing, even though she'd been ready for the task when she left Manilla, Luckily, these pirates weren't formidable enough to need killing, as was proved when a sharp kick to the last pirate's groin succeeded in reducing him into a jerking heap on the deck floor, beneath the sheets of rain. Not stopping to consider her victory, Talim hurried off of the steering deck, past the out-of-control wheel, and back into the cyclonic commotion below. This time, though, an opening was apparent in the wall that held the steering deck up, though a small one. She sprinted through it as thunder began to clap madly in the sky and daggers of lightning stabbed through every smoky cloud. It seemed safe enough…

It was so silent, and so dark. It had been dark in the open air, but this was darker without the lightning. There were no openings; save the one Talim had come through, and lightning could be seen barely through it when it flashed. The ship was rocking unstably, as Talim noted when the floor tilted from side to side. Dismissing the fact, she continued through the darkness. She seemed to be in a cargo hold, filled with silent boxes, crates, barrels, covered with layers of dust and plastered cobwebs that lined the floor like carpets. She stepped carefully, looking for a place to hide herself away as the light kept flickering behind whenever another bolt illuminated the heavens outside. All was silent…

"Trying to hide, hmm?"

Talim spun, tonfas blazing as she heard the voice. She expected it to be a pirate, but it wasn't…before her stood Raphael.

"Were you, by any chance, going somewhere, miss Talim?" he inquired, his voice deep, resonating, and dark as the light played across his face with new lightning. He advanced on her, his icy rapier a centimeter from her vulnerable throat. She lowered her tonfas, not wishing to incite him to open that throat. She stepped back, he stepped forward, a barbaric grin stretching across his elegant features. She did not cower, though, or cringe, or even show any look that might portray fear. Raphael's lip curled angrily. "Why don't you make this easy and give me that shard." His rapier waved daintily and carefully, flickering like the fluid prongs of a candle beneath Talim's chin, but still she didn't flinch.

"No." she said firmly, "If you get it…you'll do more things like you did before…you'll kill people…The shard is evil."

"I KNOW ITS EVIL!" Raphael's monstrosity of a voice boomed throughout the hold, in syncopation with the thunder clap that came next. Talim did flinch, and pulled back, leaning against several stacked crates behind, her tonfas waiting to be raised, but afraid to go on the defensive for fear of having her throat slit before she could do anything about it. Raphael, more fire in his eyes, looked at her intently, his cold gaze constantly flitting to the pouch at her side where she had snatched and stashed the much needed fragment. "I know it is evil, and I don't care if it is evil, for it STILL must be mine and mine alone. So, be a good little girl and give it to me before I need to paint this room red with your blood."

"Never..." she said, weakly, but still defiant, "you'll just have to take it."

"Gladly."

Raphael's rapier flew forward, thrusting nimbly, but Talim had already moved out of the way and Flambert struck the crate she'd leaned against. He felt a fiery burst in his leg and saw her leg retracting from it. The little runt had had the nerve to kick him, _him_. She was doomed now, even if she had not been before. Growling like a madman, he plunged forward, slashing at the floor she'd been standing on a moment ago. The dusty, musty floorboards cracked ceremoniously and he moved on, slashing at her rapidly and forcefully. She parried once or twice but was too confused by his quick movements as he shifted lithely through the darkness. Suddenly, his fingers had grabbed her throat, and her feet no longer touched ground beneath. The cold steel was at her throat again, but now accompanied by a hand. She struggled and kicked, batting at Raphael weakly, but her strength was waning. The light in her eyes was dwindling already, all her energy spent in the last fight as her struggling withered too. Soon, the hand with the sword snaked into her pouch deftly and drew off the glowing fragment. The steel returned to beneath her chin, ready to strike.

"Stop!" cried a voice from the darkness behind, "You've gone too far!" Raphael turned to see Rock, standing there silhouetted in the light of thunder, his glinting ax raised. His fingers constricted around Talim's throat, cutting off even the illusion of air, but suddenly he cast her down, just as darkness and unconsciousness took her. She skidded into the dust, panting, knocked out, going motionless and not eliciting even the slightest gaze or look of concern from the smirking French fencer. Raphael ignored her now, holding the shard tightly in his glove. "Rock, my friend…you're just in time."

"We have to worry about the pirate's now!" Rock roared.

"The shard is all that's important!" hissed Raphael, aiming Flambert at Rock and his arm stiffening perfectly, the narrow blade aligned at the level of Rock's forehead, ready to prick the place between his crossed eyes. He glared at him, and Nathaniel Adams glared back, the fix he had on his great, hulking ax, tightening with nervousness, concern, and interspersed anger as he spoke. "You can't have it, none of us can. It has to be destroyed!" Raphael's eyes, as dark as night with fire embedded deep within, rimming each vague and murky orb, pulsed and rippled as water when they set upon Rock. "You think I care what you think, worm?" laughed the Frenchman, a metallic clang evident in his tone, "I'm taking this and all other fragments. This is the first step I take towards the blade in its entirety, and neither you nor anyone else shall stand in my way!"

"I beg to differ!"

Rock and Raphael spun instantly to look upon the owner of this new, arrogant voice. Before them, dancing drunkenly from side to side was a debonair mongoloid, probably of the Ryukyu sect, bouncing from one foot to the other with a pair of elegantly flying nunchakus clasped in each hand, which he would periodically twirl. The man smiled cockily, brushing a single thick strand of jet black hair from his face coolly. He looked just about as cocky as he sounded, which only served to disgust Raphael de Sorel even more as his paled, gently glowing eyes flitted to this man.

"And who the hell are you, if you'll pardon my bluntness?" growled Raphael, with his steady elegance intact, turning his rapier to the newcomer.

"You don't know?" chuckled the man, "I am Maxi, Pirate of the Ryukyu Kingdom, Dandy of the Seven Seas."

"That's a lot of useless titles for such a little fool." responded the Frenchman, grinning wickedly as a rumble swelled in his throat. Maxi shrugged off the insult, since he was used to such things anyway. He swaggered forward, waltzing about all the while. "This ship is mine, if you didn't notice." He said, that vague and irritating smile still present on his face, an expression squirming as if it wanted to wipe itself off of Maxi's expression and throw itself at Raphael. "Now, I'm not a pirate who likes violence as much as others (or, at least, some others I could name). If you surrender now, and let me and my crew take what we need, we'll all leave you alone. If you decide to fight me, despite my warning, you'll find me quite the challenge."

"A challenge, eh?" Raphael cackled, advancing, "I haven't had a good fight in a while. But, looks to me like you're all talk!"

They charged at each other, leaving Rock panting in the corner and watching as he looked around for his ax. The two newest pairing of combatants met at the center of the room and a resounding blast of metal on metal burst from them in a melodious bubble outward. Raphael, actually fueled by the energies that were slowly dripping onto his hand like gassy fluid from the pulsating fragment, fought with unheard of energy. Maxi, also filled with a young strength, fought tirelessly, his nunchakus blazing and thwacking ever against the slim rapier. Each time, Raphael's hand shifted adeptly, driving aside the mighty, lopsided swings. He took, after some swaying back and forth in battle, a forceful kick to the shoulder, but recovered quickly. The continued moving through the room, gathering more speed as blade and nunchakus flew furiously, leaving fiery tails like comets behind.

They began moving slowly, but very surely, towards the back of the dark room and the ramp of boards, steep as a mountain, which led back up to the deck above, where stormy sounds wailed mercilessly. They fought around the ramp as Rock watched, half dumbfounded, but ready nevertheless. Finally, they were up and through it, the rain refreshed and pouring on both their heads relentlessly. They battled across the deck, jumping, leaping, twirling, and executing a number of acrobatic feats until the reached the cluttered area around the first mast. The crew of the pirate vessel had dissipated mostly, as only a few remained on this ship, while most were probably tearing apart the private quarters. The ones on deck stood in the rain and gawked at the magnificent battle while Maxi and Raphael fought, one flipping and the other diving, towards the fluttering rigging.

As Raphael thrust again with Flambert, Maxi leapt and turned in mid-air, his hand disconnecting from his weapon, shooting out, and grabbing the rigging. He swung onto it and planted his feet in the mess of ropes and knots and yardarms. Raphael, growling murderously once again, looped his arm into the rigging ropes and leapt onto it as well, the two weapons clashing again and again. Now, rather than fighting across the deck, the two fought up the rigging, climbing and dodging high above the deck and the water, blustery winds and heavy rain trying to pull them off and cast them down. Talim's rain-obstructed gaze followed the Frenchman and the pirate up the length of the mast as they swung on the yardarms in a most swashbuckling manner, stabbing and hacking at each other, severing many of the rigging ropes in the process. They fought up, they fought down, clashing entangled in the ship's yardarms, slicing at each other and managing to inflict many minor wounds.

They fought on and on and onward still, gaining on each other as they rose up the mast. They neared the broad Crow's Nest, the nest of wood and board for he who was to scout the sea ahead. They leapt around it nimbly, still slashing and stabbing, severing many crucial yardarms. At last, they clashed. Raphael's hand shot out as Maxi leapt from one rigging to another. His hand, closed into a fist, caught Maxi in the chest. The captain buckled and fell, grabbing the rigging with his left hand. Raphael's blade flew, slashing that hand, and Maxi fell again. His arm looped through the rigging ropes and toes latched on as he clawed his way up, kicking Raphael away, and threw himself into the Crow's Nest. Flambert surged forward, spearing the mast, and Maxi took his chance. His whitened, soaked knuckles slammed into Raphael's bloody jaw and he wobbled but, as Maxi went for the kill, Raphael retaliated. The rapier cut a swath through Maxi's arm as the pirate grappled with him. The bash from Raphael's hilt sent Maxi to the railing of the nest.

Breathing hard and drawing an arm and sleeve across his crimsoned chin, Raphael advanced, brandishing his weapon menacingly. Maxi, panting, was up against the rail of the Crow's Nest, inches from falling to the deck below. The Frenchman tried to smile, and soon succeeded. "You" he said, his voice grating, "have been a very annoying thorn in my side, and rude as well. I'm glad I can kill you here and now, a task made all the easier while I have this little trinket." Smiling, he looked at his hand, but his eyes widened in horror. The fragment wasn't there!

Maxi held up his own hand, shaking it, and smiled as Raphael saw the shard in it. "You mean this?"

The Frenchman lunged without hesitation. Shocked and surprised, Maxi shifted out of the way. Raphael's hand grappled with Maxi's, taking the shard in one fluid motion, but his lunge carried him over the rail. He flew downward, plummeting, but missed the deck and toppled into the sea with a resounding splash. Maxi turned swiftly to look down. Far below, Rock, who'd been looking up at the battle, dashed across the deck as quickly as his bulky, muscular legs could carry him and dove off the edge of the Marie Rose, following Raphael into the waiting ocean.

**…**

The aftermath of the battle was strange enough. Maxi's crew stood on the deck, staring slack-jawed over the railing and the roaring, devouring waves. Slowly, rubbing his injured arms and chest, Maxi slid himself out of the Crow's Nest and down the length of the riggings until he alighted, birdlike, on the deck. A mate of his turned swiftly to the victorious pirate commander. "Capn'. Y'alright? What's going on?" said one of the crew gruffly, his voice exercising a lazy drawl. "Just a little scuffle," responded his captain lightly, brushing the clinging wooden shards off his neat clothing, "nothing too important. What of the other crew?" The crewmember, his first mate, shook his head in disappointment. "All went overboard. I'd say we scared the hair from their heads, sir. Only one or two put up a fight, and they's gone."

"Good" Maxi chuckled, but then paused, looking pensive, "…But there's a problem…I need to find something out…and there's only one crewmember left." In a flash, or so it seemed, he was running back down, and had disappeared through the small threshold that led back to that cargo hold room, with his crew in tow. When the arrived, he stopped, again pushing that pesky strand of sleek jet hair from his eyes, the one that hung there, and looked around coolly. He turned, looking at the sprawled body of the girl in the room's dusty corner. He ambled over to her and knelt, examining her still, slightly cold form. He leaned down, his eyes twinkling, and slowly lowered his palm to the level of the girl's face. "Hello, little one. Still alive, hmm?"

He was met with a mighty punch to the face, straight from the flutter-eyed teen as she leapt up, aiming both legs at Maxi's and kicking his appendages out from under him with a flourish of motion. Grabbing his bashed knees, Maxi keeled over. Talim, nabbing one stray elbow blade from off the floor where it had skidded, hopped nimbly over the fallen captain. But, before she had even hit the wall of pirates, a firm and closing hand pulled her wrist, tugging it heartily backward and causing Talim to stumble and swirl around to face the hand's owner, the recovered, and very pissed pirate captain.

"That wasn't very nice, you know. I only want some answers." He growled quietly, his breath hitting her face. Roaring back with a lion's will, she shot her knee up into his groin. As Maxi doubled over, groping for his tainted manhood, Talim raised her elbow blade. Before she could strike, though, another arm grabbed her, followed by another, encircling her arms and hauling her back, kicking and screaming madly. As Maxi got up, clenching an annoyed fist, the young Filipino was, quite literally, enveloped into the circling crowd and felt herself being lifted off the ground. Talim could barely tell what was going on, all she saw was muddled darkness. It seemed the appropriate time to struggle and cry out, but that didn't accomplish much of anything except convince those holding her to tighten and roughen their grip.

She felt the earth, or the ship on the water moving beneath her. She felt the open air, though strangely smoky and foul, and new she was on the main deck as she bumped along. She was carried, though she could not see, very narrowly across the makeshift bridge of ropes and planks erected between each of the two ships. Soon, the sloping dips her passage made ceased as she was lowered, still in the dark, onto the pirate ship and moved uncomfortably out of the crisper air, back into the dank murk of quarters below deck. At long last, she saw a dwindling light. Her yelling died down, as did her mad thrashing. The grips of her opponents remained just as firm. Suddenly, she was sitting on something, and more light peeked through the slivers in between people. She was sitting on something rough, probably a wooden floor. Just as she tried, still held, to slip into a comfortable position, she was yanked forward onto her knees as the crowd parted around her.

She resumed struggling as the hands tightened again, though their number had lessened. There were only three pairs of wrinkly, hairy palms and fists restraining her, but they were strong enough to hold her. She continued in vain to fight them off as her arms were wrenched forcefully behind her as she was pushed further forward. Soon enough, the noise of the pirates faded, replaced by an eerie silence all around. "So, this is the only one that bothered staying, eh?" said an all too familiar voice.

"Bastard!" screamed Talim, literally involuntarily. She silenced her self on instinct when she realized this was the first time she'd ever swore. _'I've been around those savage foreigners too long.' _She thought ruefully, looking up with fiery eyes at the captain of this pirate ship. "Quite a mouth on this one, especially for such a young one." chuckled back the Ryukyu pirate, kneeling slowly. He moved, knees bent and standing on tip-toe, towards Talim, looking her over carefully as the pirates shoved her forward for inspection. _'Wonderful. Now pirates care about my language.' _She looked up, with a continually defiant look as the pirate captain's face became less fuzzy in her rippling vision.

"What's your name, little one?" asked the pirate, with a soothing but constant arrogance in him still.

"Why should I tell you, pirate?" she growled angrily, discovering a little more hostility than she thought she had.

"Maybe because you're my prisoner. I'd say that's a pretty good reason." chided the captain, obviously patronizing the girl.  
"That doesn't mean I have to tell you anything!" snapped Talim, eliciting more displeased murmurs from the crew. Maxi didn't respond immediately, glaring at the teenager. Then, surprisingly, he stood stepping back from Talim, and waved off the maddened crew. "Go on, get to your duties. This doesn't concern you anymore." He ordered coolly. As they obeyed, looking dejected as they began to amble out. Maxi beckoned quickly for the three holding Talim in place to remain, which they did as the room gradually emptied, leaving another unsteady silence.

"Alright, let's begin again, shall we? I just have a few simple questions."

"If you think I'm going to answer any of your questions, you're sadly mistaken." snarled Talim, just souring Maxi the pirate's attitude more and more. He knelt again, inching nearer to her slowly, and put his hand, comparatively smaller than the others', on her chin and lifted it until she met his gaze with her own. "Now then, little girl," he said, with a tone of condescension and patronization, slathered with sugary sweetness. "I don't want this to be difficult. This will go a lot better for you if you just do what I ask." For some reason, a reason not fully known to Talim herself, the young Filipino felt further inflamed just by his voice, which was actually not very displeasing. Struggling more forcefully, she tried to lunge forward, losing control again.

"Not on your life, you son of a-"

Before her expletive could be completed, a firm hand clamped over her mouth, allowing only a muffled cry to escape it. She snorted indignantly and struggled further, ever to no avail. Scowling murderously, Maxi hopped to his feet. "Perhaps we'll resume this conversation when you're feeling more cooperative." He said darkly, moving off towards the open and empty doorway.

Talim tried continually to twist free, but failed just as miserable every time. As the ruffians clamped her hands and arms at her side so that she could not lash out at them, she screamed again, but the sound was muffled as before. As Maxi, ignoring her weak yells, left the room in frustration, the pirate's hauled her onto a small cot in the room's back. Squirming furiously, she pulled her leg aside and pushed it up, watching it find its mark in the jaw of one of her captors. The pirate fell back, clutching his bleeding mouth, but before Talim could do the same to another, she became acutely aware of the fist flying at her face and, very conveniently, everything went black.

**…**

Talim awoke very suddenly, as she often did nowadays. Of course, this time she had a very good reason for sudden awakening. The memory of the battle was still fresh in her mind. She felt somewhat numb, the bruises on her head beating like a heart of its own with a constant, rhythmic pulse. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the feeling, and attempted to raise her hand to that injury, only to find that she could not. As her numbness began to settle, she again attempted to move her hand, but found again that her hand was constrained by something. She tugged back on the invisible force, reeling wherever she was, and tried more calmly to analyze. After some seconds of deliberation, she realized her plight. She was almost completely numb with pain, which was preventing her from moving for the most part, though she could think of no reason for the numbness. She had not received any painful injuries, no wounds that could inhibit her movement.

At least she was lying down, even though not very comfortably. As far as she could tell, she was lying on some sort of cot or sheets, lying in the corner of a room on the floor, more of an arrangement of sheets to place barely valuable objects on. Another thing she noticed, it was freezing, and the scratchy cotton coverings of the makeshift cot were not covering very well. She managed to roll into a more comfortable position at last. She could not fathom why the pirates had even given her some manner of blanket. That didn't exactly seem the piratical thing to do, but that pirate, the captain of the band, had not seemed like the brutal pirates she'd been told of so often. He'd been a brute, in her opinion, but an elegant, and not entirely unkind one. Perhaps she could thank him for her predicament, in more ways than one. She thought back to her encounter with him, and his crew, and…

Her thoughts, though they certainly didn't want to, turned back to yesterday's fray. Suddenly, it was there again, replaying in a more gruesome realism. Talim had never seen a man die, regardless be slain right in front of her. As she remembered the blood of that man, Rush, that had jetted up as a grotesque geyser wood right in her line of vision and its horrible feel on her face. She immediately felt the need to claw every last particle of it, along with the skin it clung to, from her skull, but could not with her arms pinioned with pain and numbness as they were. At last, she summoned the strength, but realized with great dismay that there was nothing she could do save pull her mind out of her skull. She was crying, as best as she could tell, and buried her head in something that might have been a pillow, but probably wasn't, hoping to rid herself of the horrible images. Unfortunately, as her wretched remembrances continued, a voice and figure at the open door to the dark room interrupted her.

"So, you're awake now, eh?" the pirate captain laughed, "We were beginning to think you were really out." Talim probably would have said something extremely revolting, which she, in fact, was trying to say, but Maxi didn't hear her for obvious reasons as whatever she said came out as indistinguishable mumbles while her head bobbed up and down as it would if she were audibly speaking. The words weren't forming on her lips and her voice faded too quickly to be heard. She wanted to speak, she was sure she did, and she had a good idea of what she wanted to say, but whenever her mouth opened she thought of the blood gushing from Rush's nose and limp jaw after he'd been skewered by Raphael's rapier. Maxi, grinning undetectably, knelt to Talim's level on the cot and leaned forward whispering in a calm vocal tone. "Alright now, if you promise not to say anything else derogatory about my mother, I'll let you speak for yourself, without reprimand…or the threat of bodily harm. Are we clear on that? Even though she looked as annoyed at him as ever, Talim nodded slowly, her tearing eyes closing. Maxi's smug look softened up a bit as he noticed the look on her features. With some slight hesitation, he reached toward her, flicking a strand of hair from her face so he could get a better look. The girl looked, trying to blink the water from her eyes, at Maxi venomously, and wriggled out of his grip as his hands moved away.

"Ok, we're all squared away then. Shall we get down to business?" said the captain haughtily. "Shut up." snapped Talim, choking on her words as she tried to turn away from Maxi. She hadn't spoken in a while, and her mouth had to get use to it, but she didn't feel like talking. Not wanting to seem weak in the face of her opponent, she rolled over, back to the pirate, and buried her head in the small pillow. "Oh, what's wrong with you?" teased the oddly immature dandy, "I'm not going to hurt you, that's not how I operate." Talim looked back at him, still shooting a very venomous look through red-rimmed eyes. His smile fading drearily, Maxi knelt and sat forward on his knees on the floor, managing to stoop towards the girl, sagging weakly in his seat. "I just want some information, that's all."

"Why didn't you just ask?" shot back Talim, obviously not comforted by Maxi's vague attempt at being nice. She turned a little toward him, shifting uncomfortably on her hands. She scolded herself instantly for a making such a stupid comment. Pirates never asked for things, they took, and she sounded like a weakling saying such things. Maxi looked back, trying to seem a little less rough. "You were trying to stab me at the time, if I remember correctly." The pirate reminded her, hiding a minute chuckle in his throat. "Oh, right." grumbled the Filipino back, still not looking at her captor directly.

"C'mon, kid, what's the matter?" inquired Maxi, trying badly to seem fatherly. The principle really didn't work. Amazingly, Talim actually responded, her tears becoming more apparent to him. "I…I saw a man get killed" she stammered, very weakly, her voice incredibly thin, "…Three, maybe more but I can't remember…I never saw anybody get…killed before…"

"It's something you have to get used to in this world" said Maxi resolutely, "…I know how that feels." Another bad memory, one which he really hadn't expected, began to surface in his mind. His reaction to death was wholly different then Talim's. When he'd seen it, his reaction had been a fusion of misery and anger, making him more dangerous than mournful. Thus, he found a very unaccustomed pity for the young girl as he spoke, diverting his eyes as the image of his past crew…his brother, slaughtered by that golem monster, Astaroth.

"Really…I'm…I'm sorry I brought it up." Talim said back, managing to get up at this point.

Maxi comforted her in what way he could, since he did sympathize, "No, don't be. I think about it every day anyway."

"What happened?" she queried meekly.

"My old crew" he said quietly, memory lane looming ominously before him, "…and my brother, Kyam…they were killed, all of them, right in front of me…It was a long time ago and I wasn't much of a pirate than." His arrogance seemed slightly diminished. Talim looked up at him, finally looking as if she understood. She spoke up, her voice no longer trembling feebly. "I'm sorry…I didn't know."

"I said it's alright." He said, perking up, looking confident again, "I live with my memories, you should live with yours. Now, even though I really don't want to, I have to ask you some questions. Then, if you promise not to do anything rash, like jumping off the ship or something, I'll let you go where you please until we reach land." Talim looked at him questioningly, propping herself up fully and looking him in the face. She saw more honesty, less piracy in his eyes than she had. He was still the enemy, as he had taken her against her will, but she could profit from his kindnesses. "And then what?"

"Depends. All I need are the answers to my questions. After that, I don't need you anymore. You can stay here, and, if you don't get in the way, you can do what you want onboard. So, what do you say?"

**…**

As far as Nathaniel Adams, or Rock, was concerned, he'd been actually swimming for some hours, floating for considerably more time than that. In fact, he was positive that he'd just been on the waves, in and out of consciousness, for nearly a whole day. He had Raphael now, on technicality. It was hard enough to drag a spluttering Frenchman through a raging ocean, but harder still to keep him from drowning when he lapsed into unconsciousness. Now, Raphael was either sleeping, or awake and not being very helpful. The larger, heftier man had managed to extract the fragment of Soul Edge, protesting with faint, inaudible mental growls, from the Frenchman's fingers, which had seemed locked around it.

After these many hours, or what had felt like that, passed, something, flickering insubstantially in Rock's hazy vision, could be seen on the horizon, gaining speed fast. Though Rock could barely see, the wind, rain, and watery waves crashing against him obscuring his eyesight, he guessed that it was either a sea serpent (which was very improbable) or a ship, and he hoped heartily that it was the latter. As he neared it, the vessel and man trying to gain speed, one for a reason and the other for none that was apparent, he saw that it was, thankfully, a ship. A small ship it was, with rigid, starchy sails that ripped back and forth on weak, narrow masts. It was shallow-decked, with only one sail, and cluttered with yardarms and barrels and crates on deck, but large enough to support a fifty man crew or more beneath, behind a well-armored hull. Heaving a sigh of relief, Rock steered sideways in the water, dragging Raphael with him. He hit the side, and it hit him, the armored hull gliding through the water beside. He threw his hand up, and his fingers curled around a loose board. He began, pushing and pulling his body and Raphael's to ascend. He managed to get to the rail and leap over, crashing onto the deck in a heap. He hopped up energetically, yanking the Frenchman, who was coughing and hacking now, spewing out water.

"Do you have the shard?" he said immediately, his hand grabbing Rock's arm, "DO YOU HAVE IT?"

"Yes, I have the damn shard." growled Rock, throwing his hand off disgustedly. He had not forgiven the man for his sins.

"Good….good…I was…so worried."

"At least you're awake now." Growled Rock quietly, administering a sharp, vigorous pat to Raphael's back, sending him spluttering forward a pace, coughing up water and shaking the water from his head, hair plastered to his mottled skin. He tore off the crimson gloves on his hands, shaking them out ritualistically as he stood, legs shaking frantically, and shot a quizzical glance at his equally soaked compatriot. His eyebrow, watering rivers pouring over it and tracing every wrinkle on his neatly framed face, cocked as his mouth, still filled with seawater, opened.

"W-where are we?" he queried, his voice shivering involuntarily as he continued to shake, soaked to the bone.

"I think we're on…a ship." replied Rock, pulling the bison-head helm from his head and letting it drip on the deck as he shook his head madly, water flying from his own head of dark, unkempt, and frazzled hair. He threw his head back, sending a new wave of droplets back, and tucked his helmet beneath his arm, his keen eyes overlooking the surrounding vicinity…and taking note of the people around the two of them. Strangely, they hadn't noticed being surrounded by dazed sailors, clad in tatters, rags, and patches of overcoats and undershirts sewn together shoddily. They seemed Asiatic in appearance, mostly with dark hair, eyes just as dark and pale skin which looked unnaturally tanned. They stepped forward, or some of them stepped forward, looking at them dumbly and whispering inaudibly to each other.

"Err…hello?" Rock said, posing the question to one of the crewmembers.

"Sinu-sino?" He shot back loudly, causing Raphael to wince as unnoticeably as he could for a reason he was not entirely sure of himself. He looked up, running his ungloved hand through his hair in a feeble attempt to return it to its stylish origins. Rock looked back, his mouth hanging half-open. "What?" he said at last, making an understandable gesture of confusion with his bandaged hands. Rock inspected him, as did the preoccupied Frenchman, who was still trying weakly to dry himself off, warm himself up, and curse as fast as he could under his ragged breath.

"Banyaga, opo?" said the Asiatic man questioningly.

"What about a banana?" Raphael interjected, looking with bewilderment in his eyes at Rock.

"Yous spekee anglizh?" Queried the Asian again, but not in his language, since he was stammering uncontrollably as he said these words. Rock looked at him for a long, painful moment, trying to piece together the garbled speech, until, at last, his rugged face lit up. "Anglizh…oh, English! Yes, we – speak – English." He said, stifling excitement at the possibility of communication. "And French, of course." Raphael shot in, crossing his arms as his garb began to involuntarily smooth itself out in the brisk wind. "Quiet! They can't understand us." Rock murmured, silencing him.

"Right." Raphael grumbled, awaiting the crewmember's response. At last, after waiting a very long time, for the second instance in so many minutes, the Asiatic fellow spoke up confusedly. "Yous speak anglizh, opo?" He repeated, droning the words as if they were pre-recorded. Again, sighing frustratedly, Raphael shot a very irked, semi-venomous glance at his helm lacking companion, Nathaniel Adams. "What's 'opo.'"

"It might be a question thing…I think that's Tagalog, Filipino language."

"What makes you think?"

"Well, we couldn't have been that far from Manilla Bay when we were attacked, so it's either a Filipino civilized merchant vessel, or some Asian trader, in which case we're really in trouble." Raphael's head turned, the endless winds of seaward chance berating him without fail, as he shook his head, more annoyance welled up after all these inauspicious happenings. "And why, pray tell, is that?" Rock looked at him darkly, his deep eyes shallow and narrow, his thick brow thicker once it had been furrowed in seriousness and possible anxiety.

"The Filipinos are not _very _hostile towards foreigners, from what I've heard from the sailing lot, but most other Southeast Asians are. A Chinese, Japanese, or Korean ship would be a very dangerous place for an Englishman and a Frenchman" Rock continued looking around, his focused gaze tracing over every niche and crevice of the small, ill-furnished vessel that bobbed beneath him. "…Yes," he continued after that delaying pause, "I'm fairly sure this is a Filipino ship. After all, it's not a Chinese junk, or much else, really. I'll see if I can get through to them." He turned slowly to the various gathered men and the one who'd addressed them, making fervent gestures with his hands. "…We – speak –anglizh. Opo."

"Anglizh! Mabut! Hoy, Stokes!"

The Asiatic being gestured coarsely towards the innards of the gathered sailor crowd all bundled up beneath the relentless drizzle. The crowd spread obediently and a man with a tattered cloak bunched up around his head and shoulders hurriedly pranced through it, half limping but trying to look dignified. The man peeled off the length of his hood with some hardship to reveal a wizened face with light-hued hair that could not be made out in the erratic shadows of the ocean. His ordinary hazel eyes were the only things about him that could be seen clearly by Rock and Raphael. At last, after giving them both a rigorous, curt inspection, he spoke in a pronounced accent. "'Ello, 'ello, and who're you, then?"

"Nathaniel Adams." Rock said, nodding his bearded chin for illustration.

"Raphael de Sorel." Raphael said as well, managing to execute a bow.

"I see." The other man responded, walking forward towards them both and seeming to mutter quietly to himself as he did so, rocking slightly from side to side where he stood on the deck. "I am Eleazar Stokes, the translator for the crew of this ship." Raphael looked at him, as did Rock, somewhat stupefied, but Rock managed to quickly adapt to the minor twist in the situation. "You speak English, right?" He questioned, an aspect of rush in his gruff, guttural voice. "And French, Tagalog, Chinese, Spanish, and Dutch." Stokes corrected wryly.

"Yes, that's all well and good. We – my associate and I – are in need of some assistance. Were exactly is this ship going?"

"The Lhu Bong outpost, on the coast." Responded the Englishman, with more warmth than necessary.

"Coast of where?"

"South of China; land controlled mostly by the Khmer people. This ship is delivering supplies and refugees to the small, fortified village there."

"But…the inhabitants of those territories are primitive natives and barbarians." Rock stated with a brief simplicity that, apparently, angered Raphael, who had not spoken for a time. "Your kinda people, eh, Rock?" He said, chuckling as grimly as he could before turning again. Rock took a deep breath, the blood rushing through his veins. Raphael had tried to take that shard, and would've killed to get it. Did he really deserve to be so easily forgiven? He was not _that _good of a friend, not by a long shot. He deserved another chance, but not necessarily after murdering Rush and nearly killing young Talim. That kind of cold-blooded killing was technically unforgivable, but Rock felt he had to ignore it, for he desperately required the company of the man, not that he liked him, but because he had become so accustomed to solitariness that the presence of a dignified compatriot had become a need when presented. Brushing off Raphael's snappy comment, he continued speaking.

"Are you delivering supplies to the natives?"

"No." Stokes replied, "It's a Chinese outpost."

"A Chinese outpost in Khmer lands? Don't the natives there hate foreigners?"

"How the hell do you know all this?" Raphael interjected, more annoyed now. He looked meaningfully at Rock, who did not ignore him longer and turned, whispering to his face. "The bartender on the Marie Rose talked a lot before you came along." After this, barely taking due note of the look on Raphael's arrogant features, he turned back to Stokes, saying quietly, "So, about the outpost…" Stokes simply nodded as Rock's voice faded in the air and, beginning to pace across the narrow deck, spoke yet again.

"Yes, the Khmer have been attacked by the Chinese before, so they probably hate _them_. That's why it's a _fortress_, lads."

"Fine." Raphael said swiftly before Rock could speak, "It doesn't matter. Just drop us off at your next stop." Stokes looked at the Frenchman as if he was a raving lunatic, his eyes widening in his bare skull. "Are you sure?" his voice quavered, an air of concern there, though only barely, "Our only stop is Lhu Bong, which is a few days away now." Raphael nodded, rolling his eyes as Stokes looked back towards his crew, more concerned and nervous with a pang of fear in his small, beady eyes. "Yes, we're sure." Raphael de Sorel assured him, "We'll make do in Lhu Bong." The crew of the vessel looked at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, obviously all agreeing that he _was _a raving lunatic.

"Raphael," Rock said, behind him, laying a firm hand on his shoulder, "that might not be the best idea."

"It's the only thing we can do." The Frenchman snapped icily, "We handled a crew of pirates, we can handle unruly natives."

"Firstly, _you_ lost against the pirates, and secondly, this is a whole population, not a small pirate crew."

"Eh, stop worrying. We can handle ourselves." Raphael spun, dismissing his friend's rejection, and headed through the crowd. Rock looked at the back of his head, following on his heels with threadbare obedience, as he did not serve the man, and nodded reluctantly. "If you insist." Raphael, still walking, took notice of what he said and nodded too, a wretched grin peeling over his face as he spoke. "I assure you, my nervous friend, we'll be just fine…as long as you have the shard…"


	17. Disillusioned

Author's Note:I am SOOOOO sorry about the incredibly long wait, but I have been _very _busy, and, as soon as all that business ended, I got sick, so I couldn't write. I got a bit disinterested, but I remembered that I swore to finish this…someday, so I managed to type up this chapter. It's pretty short, but that's because I took a big part of this chapter out and made it into another chapter, primarily because I couldn't finish that part and wanted to put this chapter up. I'll try to get the next one done as soon as possible, really. _Adun _and_ Ponytailed Slacker: _I wouldn't let Talim…well, you know. Maxi ain't that kind of pirate…Plus, this fic is PG-13, and Talim's fifteen (pedophilia galore in the R-Rated version, though…just joking). _Jade: _Thanks for the concrit as usual. Obviously, I lied about what I said in my 'review,' but I'll pay up in time. Now, you're all probably tired of these wretched A/N's, so her comes the chapter. Warning: Taki, Yunsung, and Geki abuse (guess who Geki is right now, before reading the chapter, correctly, and you'll get something special). This chapter might seem a bit rushed…because it is. Forgive my ineptitude, I beseech you. Tell me if my Japanese is rusty, too.

Disclaimer: You know the drill.

**Chapter XVI – Disillusioned**

"_She _saved _you_!"

Hwang Sung Kyung's voice carried amazingly well through the quiet, surprisingly brisk air of northern Pusan. It was darker now, now that night had fallen and a more comfortable cloak of darkness had covered fiery day and its own shroud. Fires were framed neatly but menacingly in the distance, where the garrison of the Koreans had been, but that fortress was now controlled by the invaders, the Japanese army and navy. They had taken over swiftly, rooting out all remaining soldiers. Though the both wished to fight the assailants of their homeland, wounds, confusion, and the jolting shock of Admiral Lee Sun Shin's sudden death at the hands of a mercenary had crushed their momentary spiritual surge. Instead, despite desire to stay, the two fled into the coming morn, just as blood-red, the pallid crimson of their comrade's life fluid stained the borders of the horizon. Now, they crouched in the mud and soot, tempered with debris borne by dainty streams of rainwater from the newly arrived storm, in a dank alley away from the commotion of the Japanese looters beginning to assault the town in earnest.

It had taken the hapless boy, Hong Yunsung, nearly ten minutes to muster the courage and strength of heart to outpour his story to Hwang as the knelt and panted, saddened and befuddled in the checkered shade of the gingko trees and vine-like branches that hung over the rooftops of each house they were between. He had managed, at last, to tell his companion the truth about what had happened to him and the now-forsaken ninja. Before, he had fabricated a story for the sake of his ego, but the veil of misery and strange, unaccustomed pain that had washed over him made his stomach lurch when thinking of his outright lie. Now, though, he feared he'd made a dire mistake. As soon as he'd concluded his tale, Hwang, who'd been brooding wide-eyed, had turned bright red, veritable steam pouring from his furiously quivering ears, and charged, bearing down on the boy.

"I was trying to tell you, I swear!" Yunsung said meekly, cringing and backing up against the wall of the house. Usually, he would've exploded right back and stared down his elder egotistically, but his severe arrogance was diminished now that he'd seen, and wrought, so much death. He felt emptier than ever he was before, more a shell then he'd been, and soulless in a way he hoped and prayed he'd never feel again. The blood on his hands, now dry crusts of material peeling away from his sweaty flesh, felt fresh and wet as when first it had been spilled. This disgusted Yunsung to no end, nauseated him, and soured his taste for egotism or pride. He tried in vain to calm Hwang, but the Korean seemed insatiable.

"That information could've been crucial!"

"How, Hwang, how?" Yunsung cried, honestly asking. He could not see what use telling Hwang the truth could've been at the time. The true story and the fabricated one were actually quite similar, another reason why the reason for Hwang's rage eluded him. Of course, his question was answered, very loudly, for him a moment later as Hwang grabbed his shoulder with a firm, closing fist. "Suicidal ninjas attacking and some crazy kunoichi fighting them is not an every day occurrence, kid, not by a long shot! There's something more, and you didn't tell me or Admiral Lee! You LIED to us, Yun!"

Yun cowered even more, trying to pull his shoulder, which was still throbbing painfully from an earlier injury. "I'm…I'm sorry." He croaked lightly, but the very sound of Hwang's breath hammering down on him made it impossible to hear his apology. "You think I don't know that?" The other man roared back, wrapping the cold digits of his other hand around Yun's other shoulder and pushing him against the wall with incredible force. Yun's mild injury suddenly blossomed open were it collided with the rough-hewn wall and beads of blood formed on his side, but Hwang ignored them, throwing Yun onto the ground and into the dirt with a murderous look in his fiery, incensed eyes.

"It wasn't my fault she saved me!" He said again, his groping fingers latching onto the jutting crags of rock on the malformed wall and hauling him steadily to his feet as he nearly slipped back down again into a waiting puddle congregated below him. Suddenly, Hwang's hands shot forward again, clasping his arms, and yanked him wholly to his feet, the man's face now an inch from him and hot breath flooding from it. "It WAS your fault that you lied to us!" He cried, causing Yun to shudder uncomfortably, he tried to reply commandingly, but all that came out was a defeated yelp barely escaping his ragged, gasping throat. "That wouldn't have made a difference."

"You had to be arrogant, didn't you?!" Hwang roared again, hurling him down with a painful thump.

"What are you talking about?" Yun shot back incredulous, knowing full well what he meant.

"You said you were talking to her. You didn't ask her anything. You just accepted that you were being attacked by ninjas?"

At this, Yun shot to his feet, uncoiling his legs nimbly from beneath and, with a delicate splash of mucky puddle water, landed on his own two feet before Hwang, brandishing an upturned finger and fist in his face angrily. He did not entirely know what had triggered this passionate insanity in his fotmer friend and tranquil comrade but, regardless of what he didn't know, he did know that he had to make Hwang understand his position. "She was holding a knife to my throat!" He bellowed, but Hwang's open palm sent him back down, crumbling into the mud ignobly as Hwang, seething and fuming, stood over him with one hand inching uncontrollably towards the gleaming blade at his side. "But you had to be arrogant. You just had to be conceited."

"I was NOT conceited, Hwang!"

"You were always arrogant, _always_!"

Involuntarily, Yun's hand dove towards the blood-stained blade dangling at his hip. He yanked it from his scabbard and, not thinking, slashed forward. Hwang's gleaming weapon was out before Yun's and parried it duly, knocking it aside with flawless ease. Yun, realizing too late what he was doing, weakened his grip, his heart pounding in his ears. Hwang, though, ignored his sudden halt, and his blade crashed down on Yunsung's, knocking it from his feeble grasp and into the mud. It lay there, spattered with murky brown and dark red, awaiting Yun's hand. Suddenly, Hwang's sword dipped down, slid beneath Yun's weapon, and threw it up swiftly. Bewildered, Yun caught it in midair. He then looked at his once-rival, whose eyes were filled with a fire that Hong Yunsung had never seen their before. "You want to fight me, hmm?" he growled, "You wanted to before, right? Well, FIGHT!"

"Hwang, please, I don't want to." Yun pleaded pathetically, unsure of what to do. "Not now…please."

"Your always running your damn mouth about how you'll beat me. Gonna beat me now, Yun?"

"Please…Hwang…I'm not going to fight…"

"THEN I"LL MAKE YOU!"

Hwang, his eyes and face alight with a dark, searing fire, lunged forward, crashing into Yunsung at full-speed. Yun managed to pull up his blade, bewildered, and parried Hwang's tearing slash, but the Korean's fist caught him squarely in the jaw. His legs wobbling uncontrollably, he slid across the muddy alleyway, his free hand scratching at the stone wall in an attempt to find something to hold onto. He could find nothing, and slid in turn down the length of the wall, feeling murky mud-water seep through his clothes as he splashed down into a waiting puddle. As he tried in vain to get up, he felt a searing bolt of fiery pain lance through him, coursing up and down his arm. His blade fell from his hand again as he instinctively grabbed at the spot that now accosted him with so much discomfort. To his horror and surprise, he felt warm blood in his palm. His shoulder blossomed red, like a bright flower, and Yun staggered. His eyes, which had been forcefully sealed, opened suddenly, just in time to see Hwang, panting heavily, bury a tightly clenched fist in the mortar beside him. Coughing up blood which fell from his lips and mingled with the brown water beneath, Yun fell to his knees. His drooping head managed to rise just a little, his blurred vision focusing on Hwang.

He was just in time to see his rival's fist shooting towards his skull…

And then, all he saw was darkness…

**…**

The first sensation that Taki felt when she awoke was not what someone else would've felt, like pain, or annoyance. Her very first thought, before her eyes had even opened, was that of restrained anger, though she could barely remember why she was angry. After barely a second, the whole memory of her imprisonment by the Koreans, her encounter with Oda Nobunaga, and her fight with Mitsurugi flooded back uncomfortably. She let slip an involuntary wince as her honed senses ran over every thing she'd felt, including the reptilian hand of Oda on her cheek, and Mitsurugi's groping fingers curled around her throat and squeezing. Thankfully, the moment of remembrance passed quickly, and she turned to the analysis of her environment.

She shot up, which, in retrospect, may not have been the best idea, since she had no means to prevent herself from falling down again, which happened promptly. Groaning in annoyance, she realized that her hands where bound, in a particularly painful way, behind her. Lying down on a cold floor, she managed to push herself up into a sitting position and, feeling behind her with numb fingers, found the wall, which she leaned on, trying to find a comfortable position to sit in. She looked around, trying to take everything in. It was too dark for her to see well, but, as a ninja, she could rely on her abilities to work out where she was. She was, as best as she could tell, in a small, cramped cell, whose walls seemed to be made of sturdy wood inlaid with some powerful metal. Some gentle but disquieting light could be seen through a two-barred grate in a door at the far end of the room. Otherwise, it was all blatantly obvious. She was imprisoned in a holding cell of the garrison. Taki entertained the possibility that she'd been transported to an invader ship while she was unconscious, but the floor felt solid and unmoving beneath her, so she ruled that out.

At the moment she didn't feel inclined to attempt escape. She was hungry, thirsty, tired, and a number of other things. Her throat still hurt from being grabbed constantly, and her wrists were in pain because of the tight, course bonds restraining them. She had a pounding headache, and could've continued mentally complaining if she felt it necessary, but didn't. Instead, Taki let herself slide back down the wall of the cell again and contemplated her position. She was going to be a prize, first for Oda, but then for the Fu-Ma, her ninja clan. They would pay the most and do whatever was needed to get her back. Oda Nobunaga's little auction was useless, a pointless endeavor, since the Fu-Ma would certainly outbid, outfight, and outdo all other competitors. Toki needed Taki, and her sacred, powerful weapons. If anyone removed her from this prison, it would be him and his clan.

Some days, Taki couldn't even remember why she was hunted by the Fu-Ma. She seldom wished her life were different, but if anything in her existence could be altered, it would be her allegiance and betrayal of those ninjas. They hunted her daily, without tiring or ceasing, and someday, maybe someday soon, they would catch up with her. The seeds of dissent had been planted in her early, but Taki had never expected to actually flee from the Fu-Ma, become a fugitive. She still held vivid memories of the times when she first questioned her faith. The memories were emblazoned into her mind, irremovable and biting, their caustic effect lingering in her…

_"Again!__ Stop watching his eyes, start watching his hands; that is where the danger is!"_

_A young Taki, barely sixteen summers old, nodded obediently, but kept her eyes focused on those of her opponent. The deep orbs, focused and precise, looked across the thin mat on the floor to her foe, her small fingers curling around her blades, a pair of delicate but broad kunai. The kunai, sitting in her gentle and tranquil grip, were originally tools for digging in provincial farmlands, but they were ideal for the training on ninjas. They resembled ninjatou, but could be easily dulled or sharpened, and they weighed more, which made them devices for developing the skills of balance in ninja trainees. Taki had had these kunai for years now, and had never used another weapon save a duo of jittes, wooden blades, as a child. She'd begun intense, relentless training and practicing with real, lethal weaponry at age eight, and continued to do so rigorously. Today was no different, except that she had a score to settle._

_Taki had never liked Geki, this she knew, and she didn't like him anymore now. He had never been a person she could stand, and she disliked even spending time in the same room with him. Of course, that was almost definitely why Master Toki had chosen him to be her opponent in this exercise, a sparring session where Taki was supposed to learn how to physically immobilize an opponent without causing bodily harm to him or her. Toki no doubt knew that Geki's dank, scathing attitude would provoke her, especially in her current state of mind. She was on edge, senses both sharpened and dulled at once by a flood of emotions. Her contemporaries and fellow students had tried to blame her violent mood swings on the simple advancement of age, but anyone with half a mind knew that ninja discipline didn't let such things happen for trivial reasons. She had, or at least thought she had, a very good reason for her attitude._

_In a ninja dojo, it was very hard to relate to anyone, as most were trained to show as little emotion as possible when conversing or discoursing with fellow students. In a dojo, friends were a rare commodity, one which some valued and others despised. Taki was one of those who only valued it subtly, but gossip traveled surprisingly fast in a place were secrets were ruthlessly hoarded like gold. Taki had only one true friend in Fu-Ma No Sato, and that was a girl some months older than herself, a more disciplined individual by the name of Nariko. Nariko had helped Taki when she required focus and sought it and she befriended her in a way no other bothered to. But, she was yet untamed by Fu-Ma ideals, and had openly opposed the sensei of the dojo, Toki, on too many occasions. As she grew in age and wisdom, she became more aggressive against old Toki's teachings, and listened less and less. Though Taki implored her not to, she continued to do so._

_At last, two weeks prior, Nariko had stolen from Fu-Ma No Sato by night, leaving a dojo which new what would become of her. As all students who fled were, she was labeled a nuke-nin, a renegade, an outcast, and was wanted by the Fu-Ma. Geki was one of the ninjas, along with his shady cronies, Gaki and Doki, who went off to seek Nariko and bring her home. Of course, she was not supposed to be returned alive, and sure enough wasn't. Three days after his departure, Geki and his motley crew had returned with very valid 'proof' that Nariko had been slain by his hand. Taki, who been concerned after Nariko's flight, was nearly devastated by her exile and sudden death, but did not show it. It was as much a crime to pity a nuke-nin as it was to be one, so she pulled all her petty sorrows into herself and walled them away from the outside world, but became removed from dojo society, and all new why._

_"What's the matter, little Taki?" Geki, his sugary tenor lancing out at her from across the room, "Afraid I'll do some permanent damage this time? Just be glad that hair grows back, but limbs don't." Taki knew he was referring to their last sparring session, which had occurred when Taki was younger still. It had concluded with Taki losing some hair from her head to an idle swing from what she'd though was a blunt ninjatou. Geki had been reprimanded more than a little firmly for such a brash action, but had come away laughing idiotically, while Taki came away from the fight with renewed hatred for Geki. Now, with similar, but passionate hatred for the man, she snapped back at him darkly. "Shut up, Geki!"_

_"Heh, I thought you'd grown, Taki, but you still sound like a child."_

_"Master Toki!" Taki protested, her eyes turning to the wizened, friendly face that sat, looking nonchalantly at her. Her master, and the master of the Fu-Ma, Master Toki, sat cross-legged on a small, elaborate tatami mat on one side of the room with several other occupied mats around him. Toki, his deep eyes, great wells of memory and experience, peered with gentle sincerity but residual sternness at Taki. "He may say what he pleases, Taki-kun." said Toki quietly to his young pupil and foster daughter, "If his words deter your abilities, it is your fault."_

_"But-"_

_"Yudan taiteki, Taki-kun, remember." said Toki with a commanding air, his voice gentle and melodious as if speaking in singsong. He was merely quoting an old saying, one of the sections of generic ninja creeds and regulations. It was a sort of commandment or proverb, though most of the younger ninjas referred to these irritating non sequiturs that their master would spout at seemingly random intervals as 'fortune cookies.' Toki was a wise man, not yet old, but not young any longer. At a very young age, Taki had been technically adopted by him, or at least taken in. All his students looked to him as a sage-like father figure, so Taki never suffered from the illusion that Toki was her parent. Still, though, she did have a special love for him, like that of a daughter to a father. They had spent much time together, learning. The old man had helped young Taki thrive and she inwardly thanked him for it, though she had never shown her gratitude._

_"Yes, sensei," she said, begrudgingly, "I know."_

_"Yeah, Taki," snarled Geki, chuckling ominously, " don't let emotion 'cloud your judgment,' eh? You can do better."_

_His constant chiding was grating on Taki's last nerve. "Onore," she spat, "I'll make you eat your words yet!"_

_"Taki-kun!" said Toki loudly, alerted by Taki's cursing at her fellow student, "Focus!" Obviously the man knew of Taki's problem and dislike of Geki, but he would not let the exercise get out of hand, or follow the wrong course, because of it. He was wise in the feelings of his pupils, his students, his children, and, like a shepherd to his flock, he did not let those of his herd go astray, never…unless there was nothing he could do to prevent such undesirable actions. Only three people had ever abandoned the Fu-Ma, which was few compared to many ninja clans, but every loss was a dire one. One student had recently fled the dojo in Fu-Ma No Sato, much to Toki's chagrin, and he'd been forced to issue a warrant for her death, as much as he didn't want to. He did not talk of such things, but, much to his annoyance, Geki did, and picked a very bad time to bring up the incident in conversation._

_"Right, little kunoichi, focus!" retorted Geki, "Or do you wanna be kicked out and end up a nuke-nin like Nariko?"_

_Toki nearly shot up from his mat, along with some other esteemed members of the exercise's audience. Even though Geki was technically allowed to say anything to Taki as a distraction, this had touched on an untouchable subject. Slain nuke-nin were not to be spoken of by name, ever. It was wrong even to discuss them not by name, but to mention them was blasphemous to the clan. A dead nuke-nin was a dead nuke-nin, no more, no less. But, this was not the only reason Toki jumped. He knew that the subject was dear to Taki, and conjuring it in such a derogatory fashion was not advisable. "Geki!" he cried, protesting._

_But it was too late._

_Taki dove headfirst across the room, both kunai spinning in her hands, rotating wildly. The glint of the two blunted tools seemed radiant and grim, as if it were being sharpened by Taki's anger. Eyes blazing with fierce flame, Taki plowed into Geki, both her weapons slashing at him frantically, she cut a number of minor gashes into the length of each of his arms, and all of them exuded little spurts of red at the same instant. Geki fell, his blades clattering onto the cushioned floor and the red pouring from his wounds spilling with them. He yelped feverishly, beads of sweat erupting from his forehead. The farm tools were not supposed to hit his unprotected arms, or do any damage whatsoever. The wounds he received would easily become infected considering the quality of the weapon used. He looked up through tearing eyes to see Taki over him, nearly straddling him, with one kunai at his throat._

_"NEVER speak that name again, baka, or I'll slit your throat were you stand!" she growled murderously._

_"Get over it, Taki." Panted Geki, still managing to smile evilly despite the pain, " You know she's not coming back…At least not now, anyway."_

_"I said shut up about her!"_

_Suddenly, ignoring the daggers that were stabbing at him inside and out, Geki kicked up, surprising Taki. The young ninja nearly flipped backward as Geki shot to his feet. Before Taki could react, Geki dashed forward and, grabbing her wrists firmly, drove her back past the assembled congregation and into the nearest wall. A second later, Taki found her weapons gone, her arms pinned above her, and Geki's face an inch from hers, which was twice as disgusting as being in the same room as him. "She was a dirty traitor and you know it!" he whispered, his breath repulsing her._

_Taki searched for a quick and easy way to cause incredible pain to her opponent. She found one. After less than a second of thinking, Taki's foot went up, finding Geki's most vulnerable and protected part, right between his legs. Gasping in pain, Geki staggered, dragging Taki with him onto the ground. He was still holding onto her wrists in a weak attempt to immobilize his rival, an attempt which was, at present, failing miserably. She kicked him again, harder, and he released her, but not before driving his clenched, white-knuckled fist into her chest. Before either knew what was happening, the two ninja students were punching, clawing, and doing anything to each other that might cause pain. They rolled around for about ten seconds before strong hands, prying like crowbars, managed to separate the two of them, who madly struggled to get back into the fight._

_Taki looked up, her gaze swimming. Taking sharp, deep breaths, she stopped struggling and relaxed. She was being held back unnecessarily by Gaki and Doki, the two 'colleagues' of Geki's. Geki, on the other hand, had a pair of anonymous students who'd come simply to watch. Taki thought it ironic that Geki's cronies had chosen to haul her off of their leader to prevent his injury by a young girl rather than try to nobly prevent their companion from harming a weak and defenseless youth. But, now was not the time to consider irony, obviously, considering the dark look Master Toki had on his face. _

_"Geki! Taki!"_

_"It was his damned fault," Taki spat, angered again, "if he hadn't brought up-"_

_"Quiet! Taki-kun," Toki said, in the fashion a teacher should, " the objective of the training exercise was to stun your opponent, not attempt to kill him." He made a little waving gesture with his wrinkled hand and the two students let Geki fall to the floor. He looked unscathed, despite the cuts on his arms and the fact that his hand couldn't stop flitting to his most injured section, to Taki's sadistic pleasure. She on the other hand, had a black eye and was bleeding at the mouth. Gaki and Doki intentionally waited an extra few seconds before letting Taki go, and when they did, they threw her onto the floor forcefully. This elicited a disapproving glance from Toki, but he disregarded them. Slowly, he knelt before Taki as she wiped the blood from her lips. "You acted rashly and stupidly," he said, cold eyes narrowed and glaring with the precision of knives, "and you'll try again tomorrow, and you'll follow the parameters of the exercise. Is that clear?"_

_"Yes, sensei. Forgive __me.__" said Taki, bowing her head apologetically._

_"Geki, Gaki, Doki, leave us." Toki commanded. They all obeyed, though Geki kept shooting dark glances at Taki over his shoulder, to which she did not respond. Geki, his cronies, and the two students exited silently and Toki, with a fatherly look crossing his face, turned back to his foster daughter._

_"Taki, I know you still feel self-conscious about Nariko."_

_"No, sensei, I was simply in a bad mood." Taki knew what was coming next and she truly didn't want to hear it today. She, like the other Fu-Ma students and ninjas were used to Toki's zealous but tedious tirades. Today, whoever, Taki would much rather be fighting Geki still than be lectured by her master. She waited quietly, steadying herself, for the tempered reprimand to begin, which it soon did. She felt pain in her, physical and mental; pain from Geki blows and from his unspoken words. Of all Fu-Ma ninjas, she hated him most. Each day she hated him more, and each day her love of the Fu-Ma died a little bit more._

_"Don't lie to me, Taki-kun," Toki said, almost scolding (a strange sight to see in a ninja master), "I can see right through your false statements. Everyone in the Fu-Ma dojo knows that you and Nariko were close, and I know further that her unfortunate loss affected you. It was her choice to abandon Fu-Ma No Sato, not yours, her mistake." He stopped, hesitating, and sighed, shaking his head sadly for an instant before continuing. "It was only bad luck that you had to see her returned to us, certainly. I would not have wished such a fate upon her, but discipline must be exercised. That is most important to the Fu-Ma. Discipline. You can remember Nariko in what way you wish to, but she is gone, she is nothing. You, Taki, you are something…do not ruin your chances of becoming great. You have been given strength and power, do not squander those qualities. Remember where your loyalties lie…"_

And her reverie ended on that note. Loyalties, or at least hers, never lay still. Taki's loyalties had long since strayed from the Fu-Ma, and her master. She was hunted by them, hated by them, and they sought her day by day. If all went ill for her, she would be auctioned back to them, and she knew what would become of her then. She would pay for her disloyalty. Taki, as a ninja of the Fu-Ma, knew how harsh they were with traitors. But, she was a special case. Toki didn't want her dead; he wanted her alive, an unprecedented incident in Fu-Ma history. Geki was now one-armed, thanks to Taki's explosive evil blade, MekkiMaru, currently confiscated by that Korean boy. He probably hated her just as much as she hated him. Her thoughts were promptly interrupted by a blaring blast of light that beamed radiantly through the cell door, which had just swung limply open. In the illuminated threshold of the door an all-too-familiar figure stood.

"Doing well?" Heishiro Mitsurugi said, some wry sarcasm sitting in his voice.

"Go away." Taki snapped back, pushing herself up and trying to look less helpless than she was. Mitsurugi chuckled under his breath, moving with very little caution into the room. She looked up at him darkly, but turned away a moment later. "You _really _don't have any authority to tell me that." He remarked, a sardonic chill very evident in his gruffer, but still lighter voice. Crossing his arms nonchalantly, he began to pace towards her, ambling across the room before he actually neared her. Taki looked up defiantly, but remained turned away, managing to inch backward into one of the room's dull corners, where even less light reach from the door's grate and the outside.

"You're right, _General_, I don't."

"I'm not a General." He replied briskly, "Nobunaga's given me command of the Urakami troops, no more."

He was moving closer, but not in a menacing way. Perhaps the ronin actually thought Taki to be helpless. The ninja had to admit that her bonds would not be easily broken, but she was still dangerous. She didn't understand why Mitsurugi was taking so few precautions, but disregarded the fact as good luck on her part and snapped back, continuing the poetic stream of insults. "Do I look like I care?" Mitsurugi smiled grimly in response, pacing aimlessly around the room as if he were musing about something. "No, not a bit," he said coldly, "but I didn't ask if you did."

"Good, don't."

Suddenly, he stopped pacing and looked down in a condescending fashion at the ninja. Slowly, wary and cautious, he bent down, squatting on the floor. He produced a small flask from the innards of his uniform. "Taki, I do have a reason for being here." Taki's eyes had the precision of daggers when she glared back up at him. Most men might've flinched, expecting imminent pain, but Mitsurugi didn't. In fact, the ronin looked bored. Trying to incite some reaction, Taki spoke under her breath, but loud enough so that Mitsurugi would hear. "And I thought you'd just come to check up on me out of the goodness of your heart." Mitsurugi's gaze sharpened, but he didn't look incensed…yet.

"You can save the sarcasm, ninja. I brought water."

"Isn't Oda starving me or something?"

"Yes, but he doesn't want you dead." Mitsurugi said, his expression dull.

"I've been here a few hours at most. Does he think I'm already starving?"

"No. I brought the water." Mitsurugi seemed as if he did not want to admit the fact. Taki could understand why, and even sympathize, though she didn't show it. She would never give the ronin any satisfaction, none, for as long as she lived. She'd be willing to do almost anything if it made him angry, uncomfortable, or in any manner of bad mood. She looked away from him, feigning disdain. "Good for you. I don't want it." Mitsurugi glared at her, but did not retract the hand with the flask in it. He did wonder for a second if she would've preferred cold sake, but realized he didn't give a damn about what she preferred. He knelt down lower, settling onto the hard, cold ground, and offered the drink again.

"I'm giving it to you know because he won't let me in here again for another week and a half. If you don't drink up…"

"I can survive on my own, Heishiro." She responded quietly. Mitsurugi winced at the use of the name.

"Don't call me that. You should be thanking me."

Taki looked incredulous. "For pity?" she said, "I don't need that from somebody who needs it more."

"You want what I have to give or not?"

"Not a bit. I recommend you leave, unless you want a broken rib or two."

Taki's threat was lost on Mitsurugi as his brow furrowed. "Ingrate." He spat, getting to his feet and sliding the flask easily into his outfit, "You just can't take help, can you?" Taki looked up at him, meeting his gaze with her own for the first time. She looked defiant, but that defiance was just masked enough to look like Taki had no reason to be defiant and that she was just being that way for the hell of it, or to annoy Heishiro Mitsurugi. Scowling and shaking his head, Mitsurugi turned around, lifting a leg to walk out, but Taki's next interjection stopped him in his tracks. "If you think I need help from you," she growled under her breath, "then you're the one who needs it. Go back to your master."

Mitsurugi spun, bearing down on the ninja. "He's not my master," he snapped icily, "he's my commander."

"You've been bowing at his feet since first word of the invasion, haven't you?"

"_He_ came to _me_." Mitsurugi snarled like a predator ready to pounce.

"Because he wanted someone to lick his boots. I thought you had _some _honor in you."

Mitsurugi exploded, shooting forward. His fist clenched around Taki's throat, for the second time in as many hours.

"Bitch!"

"Bastard!"

"You'll be begging for water in a week."

"You'll be begging for doctors in about five seconds."

Just as she'd done with Geki, and Oda Nobunaga, Taki yanked up her leg just as Mitsurugi loomed over her. She found her mark and sent Heishiro Mitsurugi stumbling foolishly backwards. He sunk to his knees, a single river of blood welling up in his mouth's left corner, and tried to regain his lost pride…and lost portions of his much-valued manhood. Stammering with uncontrolled rage, he managed to get to his feet, breathing hard, and looked at Taki with a face as filled with fire as the very pits of hell. He continued looking grimly at her, quivering with fury. "I should've killed you when I had the chance, and I should kill you now, but you'd be better off dying of thirst."

Finally having regained some of his composure, he turned, leaning against the cell wall for support. He started to head out again, mumbling incoherently, but Taki halted him again. "What's the matter, ronin? I thought you could take a blow." This was too much for the mercenary, who spun on his heels, ignoring the mild flame that had sprung up in his injured section, whipped his small tanto from its lacquered scabbard, nestled into the sheath of his katana, and hurled it through the air. It whistled over the silent room, spinning nimbly, and thudded into the wall just beside Taki's head. She shot an austere glance at the small, knife-like blade, but ignored it, remaining silent again. Slowly and warily, Mitsurugi walked over to the wall, taking notice of the unsettling silence that had descended over the room, and ripped out the sleek, polished tanto, prying a few wood and stone splinters with it.

Strangely, when he looked to Taki, he saw an expression on her face to which he was unaccustomed. "If you have any honor left," she said quietly to him, nodding towards the tanto in his hand, "leave it." Mitsurugi eyes her, wondering if this were some trick. She was obviously trying to impress upon him that she'd rather die than be held as a prisoner. He knew that it probably was a trick, but he was sorely tempted to leave it anyway. He pondered the blade; thinking of what a rivalry such as this might constitute him to sacrifice, but decided quickly against allowing his imprisoned opponent an escape route. "So you'll cut you bonds and find some ingenious way to escape?" he said at last, "Not on your life."

"Would it matter? This place has an army around it."

"You refused my offer, and you'll pay for your arrogance."

"You're the only arrogant one in this room."

Mitsurugi ignored her last comment and sheathed his tanto in the katana scabbard, walking towards the cell door. "Goodbye, Taki." He murmured wistfully, "Maybe your attitude will be domesticated after a week without food or drink." And he disappeared through the opened door, which slammed closed with a metallic clang a moment later, extinguishing the vague light that had illuminated the room. Taki looked after him, considering, but only for a moment. The three dim beams of cold, sickly light that shone in from outside through the barred door grate were somewhat soothing, and allowed her to concentrate. The ninja, as she continually reminded herself, had escaped from worse situations than this…


End file.
